


A Lost Home

by olippe



Series: We're Going [3]
Category: Simon & Garfunkel
Genre: Angst, Angst and Romance, Best Friends, Drama, Drama & Romance, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, M/M, Male Friendship, Musicians, Romance, Romantic Friendship, give them chow mein, now both of them are sad, seriously this is so long, then do it again, then getting angry, they just keep on doing it, tldr material
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-22 16:43:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 28,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22719073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olippe/pseuds/olippe
Summary: Fame comes at the wrong time, interrupting all the right things.
Relationships: Art Garfunkel/Paul Simon
Series: We're Going [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1629406
Comments: 5
Kudos: 17





	1. When London Calls

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, this is a work of fiction albeit being based on real people and real events. While attempts to keep as close to the chronology and other facts as possible, things might be adjusted for the sake of story. Hence fiction :x

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul is in London. Art comes to visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's day!

It’s not unusually rainy when mid-morning comes to pass. It seems like the boy’s still sleeping there, in the corner, under piles of jackets, coats and blankets. He hugs the guitar—almost as big as he—like it was his lover. Cute, in a way. But most of all, it’s the truth.

“Paul.” A shake. He groans sleepily, swatting the intrusion as if it were a fly. “Paul, it’s time to wake up.”

“Is it night?”

The man grumbles like thunder and gives Paul a final shove. “If you can joke, you can stand up, take a piss and take a hike. Pip, pip.”

Paul yawns and wipes his eyes, blinking several times. His eyes are blurry for a while, adjusting to the soft grey light. England is grey. Light doesn’t seem to be very fond of it. It’s nice to wake up to that.

He stretches his body and gratefully takes a cup of black coffee from the pub owner. It’s not very posh, life here, but it’s fun. It’s nice to live day after day doing nothing but living, playing music, eating, sleeping, waking up with mild warning of back ache. After all, isn’t that the use of young age?

“Where are you heading now?” The pub owner isn’t the most delicate man, but he sure has soft spot for Paul. He won’t be giving away a free cup of coffee if he doesn't. “To Piepe?”

Paul shrugs. “Kathy’s.”

He smiles fondly. Paul raises his eyebrow, knowing. People love Kathy. And why wouldn’t they? She’s sweet, quiet, charming. She talks about the most enchanting things; the most ordinary, and the most human. Paul loves it. Paul needs it. In his time of roller-coaster of emotions, having Kathy seems to be able to keep him on the ground; nowhere below, not at all afloat. She’s a calming presence, Kathy, with her pensive look and demureness.

Paul met Kathy during his first trip to England, formally introduced a little later. They spent time together during breaks he had between recording. Kathy was never really in favour for his faraway farewells for his music gigs, much less his returns to the US. Paul, too, was never really happy to leave Kathy behind. It was during this time that he, for the first time in his life, ditched the urgent call from the studio and took Kathy across the US. They returned only after it felt alright to part, having spent not a single moment away from one another.

Paul _could_ be in love with her. Probably he is. He is. He needs Kathy like England needs better lighting. It almost felt like love at the first sight; it could even be it. And after cups and cups of tea, it only makes better and better sense that Kathy… Kathy’s the most loveable woman in the world. Even when he’s with Art, the ghost of Kathy’s face still—

Art. What’s he doing now? Where is he? What did he do after… all that? He never did see Kathy, even then; Paul didn’t want him to. He didn't want too, either. It’s too weird, after everything they'd done. Did he know where Paul went those five days he was missing? Surely he did. Someone would’ve told him. Paul told Eddie. Eddie would’ve told the producer. The producer would’ve told Art. Or Eddie did. Art didn’t say anything when they met again. He never did, even during that time on the night after his graduation.

Anyway, what did he do after that? He surely knows Paul returned to England not only for the music scene. They parted amicably, but they did bid unspoken farewell for both their professional and romantic relationship—kinda. He surely would know that there’s Kathy here, in England with Paul. Did he pursue anything on his own? He sent letters, a few. It’s cool, almost cold, not very informing. Did he come back to school?

Did he miss Paul?

“Hey, can I borrow some paper and stamps?”

***

Kathy’s flat is small and grey. She’d put up some potted plants, but they kept on dying. Paul suggested one of those plastic plants instead, but she found it distasteful, to which he actually agreed. A couple of empty pots are standing at the end of the room when Paul walks in. 

Kathy welcomes him with a kiss. She always puts her arms around his neck, unless when she’s sulking. She is. So when they pull apart, the first word out of Paul’s mouth is, “Sorry.”

Kathy shrugs. She’s a lot like Paul, in a way. Something in her is also far away, very odd, but much less out-worldly than Paul. No, Kathy lives in real world. And she knows that Paul has to do what he has to do, so she accepts the apology, albeit begrudgingly. “It’s alright,” she said. What she _really_ wants to say was, “Don’t go far off again, then.”

Paul, catching the unspoken complain, smiles and brushes her hair behind her ear. “I’m still sorry. Listen, I don’t have any engagement for a while. Why don’t we do something together? Wanna go somewhere for a short holiday?”

“Can’t.” Kathy shakes her head. “I’ve got to work, Paul.”

That’s much bitter than the amount of words she used. Kathy has that face. Or maybe that youth; she doesn't know how to mask her feelings all that well yet. She almost could; in a few years, she'd be stellar. But right now, it's still there, written on her face. _No, we're not going on a holiday because I'm pissed at you._ Paul doesn’t give up. “A weekend trip, then. Nothing far, nothing fancy… not like we can afford any of that…” Kathy laughs a little. Sensing the upcoming forgiveness, Paul wraps his arms around Kathy’s waist, warmly pulling her in, coaxing. “Let’s just go somewhere cheap, weird village somewhere… We can get a room, beg for food, steal a sheep…”

Kathy chuckles. “Oh, it’s always adventures with you, isn’t it, Paul?”

“Is it?” Paul smiles softly.

She nods admiringly. “Yes, it is.”

Kathy suddenly breaks away from the moment and pats her hands on Paul’s chest. “Before I forgot. Darling, you’ve got a post.”

***

He knows he shouldn’t have done this. He’s got Kathy. He’s in love with Kathy and she’s in love with him. But he didn’t even think. Before he knew it, he’d brought himself to London, ditching Kathy for…

Art. The streets are way too open for him to be running and hugging Art. Besides, it’s still raining. He might slip and fall, which would be embarrassing and he wouldn’t hear the end of it. So he opts for a more dignified entrance: a smile, a nod, a hello, a handshake with… okay, they can hug, like friends do.

Art had chosen a dinky pub somewhere in sketchier part of East London. Paul’s not sure whether to order milkshake with hair or coffee with sawdust. Art laughs at the length Paul takes to glare at the menu and the bar, and orders two beers for the table. It comes lukewarm.

“Well.” Art lifts the bottle off the table. Paul follows the suit, clinking the bottles and takes a swill. Art winces at the lukewarm taste, considering whether to order a glass of ice but decides to drink somewhere else after this instead. “It’s been a while. How are you doing?”

Oh, American accent. How Paul longs for it.

“Fine. Alive. Having a shit of a beer, but other than that, pretty good. You?”

Art laughs. His eyes narrowed when he laughs, sparkling. He’s the light that England so desperately needs. And ironically, he’s much more bearable in England, where no sun wants to put a light on his beaming head. Paul still thinks about his head from time to time—what does he have for hair, aluminium?

Paul moves a little closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Why are you here? What are you doing?”

“Drinking,” Art whispers back, then laugh. He takes another disturbing sip to prove his point, eyebrows lifted in challenge. God, he’s gorgeous. It’s been months since Paul’s seen Art. How did anyone have that nose and not have a church built for them? How could anyone not cry at the sight of _those_ eyes? Those lips? That dandelion hair? The dandelion hair! God, Art is a beauty.

“I made incessant sound sometimes yesterday over unawareness.”

“What?”

“That makes sense.”

Art laughs. “Completely not.”

Paul sighs. “It does if you think it through.”

“How does that work?”

“I don’t know. You take the initials.”

Art frowns.

Paul sighs. He drops his head down and, shyly— _shyly—Paul?—_ mumbles, "I miss you."

"Oh." Art's eyes sweep across the pub in panic. But he chose the dirty pub for a reason, and the reason is to make sure that it's empty and miserable that no one would be around to overhear them. He relaxes and chuckles softly at Paul. “That’s a hell lot of words to go through to say such simple thing.”

Paul shrugs. “Didn’t expect you wouldn’t know how to unscramble that.”

“Yeah, _who would?_ ”

They both laugh. It’s so easy with Art. They can bicker, they can scream or yell at each other or whatever, but ultimately, they’d always known the reason why and it’s never spiteful. Over the years of harmonising, they pretty much have one channel that connects each other that they simply need to plug when they’re together.

That’s why when Art clears his throat, Paul knows where this is going.

***

Art’s hotel room is as grey as Kathy’s flat, it’s almost ridiculous. Could it be that all England knows of colour is this—the year-round rainy sky, the wet street? Paul picks up a book on Art’s nightstand. Emily Dickinson. Paul had asked him to read her. “You know, I never did find her in my bookshelf.”

“I know,” Art replies. “Otherwise, you would’ve given it to me. I bought my own.”

Paul smiles, more at the book than at Art. “When did you start liking books, actually? I don’t recall you were ever a reader as a child.”

“Hey, I read,” Art groans defensively. “Just not as much as you. Anyway, it’s in Columbia. People talk about books _a lot_ there, I thought it’s nice. Besides,” he hesitates, then adds with more bravado, “I thought it’s nice to have more things to talk about with you.”

Paul drops the book, looking at Art fondly. “Do we really need _more_ things to talk about?”

Art shrugs and laughs a little. “Well, we seem to have a lot of things we _don’t_ wanna talk about. Safe to have a spare.”

“That’s true…”

Art approaches Paul now, both mulling in silence for a while. The mud-stained soles of their shoes are leaving tracks on the carpet. Art wonders if it’s best to take them off, but it seems to be way too late for that. Is it?

“Paul, your coat.”

Art offers his arm for a coatrack. Paul takes off his black coat, droplets of rain still cling on it. They share a longing look at each other as Art feels the weight of Paul’s coat on his arm, as if they’re still far away from each other. Art drops the coat. He needs both arms to kiss Paul. He needs to kiss Paul. Now.

Art puts one arm around Paul’s waist, the other tilting his head. There’s nothing coy about their first kiss in months. Art’s missed Paul and Paul had been thinking of Art, too. Their lips swipe against one another desperately, thunderously, painfully. Paul’s eyes teared up a little. His heart feels like it’s swelling thrice its size, getting high, getting drunk, any sort of intoxication.

Clothes left their bodies fast. The hotel room is cold, having only the cheapest central heating, so both quickly seek warmth in each other. Paul runs his hands through the knotty spine on Art’s back, stopping at his hips, pressing at the rear, revealing the opening. Art’s more than ready now. He’d longed for this. He hasn’t felt Paul for long enough time.

It’s not very scary now, this whole operation. On the contrary, it feels deliriously good. Art drops his head and raises his hip, letting himself be stretched, filled, pressed. Every single inch of his body feels as if it’s introduced to new height of sensitivity. Art moans into his fist. His heart is bursting behind his ribcage, painfully knocking as if there’s no room to contain it in his chest.

Paul squeezes his eyes and bites his lips, so hard it almost bleeds. He holds back his groans, all the noises he needs to scream out, vowing to keep his rambles in silence. It doesn't matter how much he wants Art to hear it—and, oh, he does. He wants Art to know how good he feels, how much he wants this to last. He never wants to leave.

Paul lifts Art’s hip, pressing it roughly against his groin. Art makes squeaking noise like a closing door and Paul grumbles in his throat. For a while, they remain still, like a frozen frame in a movie. The few seconds feels like forever; the seasons seem to have changed outside, they seem to have travelled far and back, reached the stars and take its beam back down to earth. Things go white…

Then Paul falls heavily on Art, panting helplessly. Art wants to turn around and hold him, but he can’t seem to move. Mostly, he doesn’t have enough energy to push Paul off his back to do that. He finds Paul’s fingers and holds it tightly, the only thing he can have for the moment.

“Heavy?”

“A bit.”

“Sorry.” Paul flips himself and drops at Art’s side. His breathing is still heavy, so is Art’s. Neither has the strength to cuddle, so they just lie there, holding hands under the blanket, catching their breaths.

“I wrote a song.”

“Yeah?”

“I wrote _some_ songs. The other one is about an announcement in newspaper. Someone died. Killed himself. Bad way to go, four lines eulogy.”

“Cheerful.”

Paul laughs weakly. "Inevitable, is it? Look at this place. You think cold, windy, rainy, gloomy, and grey is simply a cliche word-set to describe England, but then you're here, and there's no other way to describe it."

Art grins at the ceilings. He tightens his grip on Paul's fingers. "True. But not all gloomy, don't you think?"

Paul turns his head and looks up at Art. The latter returns the gaze.

"I would've written more songs for you," he said. “But it’s difficult to write about you.”

“Yeah?”

“It makes me sad.” Paul lets out a long sigh towards the ceiling. “Not in an inspiring sort of sad. Just… confused. I’m sad because I’m confused. I don’t wanna be confused about you.”

Art props himself on his elbow, then reaches out to stroke Paul’s head. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. I rewrite that song, though. Wednesday Morning 3 AM?”

“I like that song.”

“Yeah, me too.” Paul closes his eyes and sinks himself to Art’s stroking hand. “I rewrite it as ‘Somewhere They Can’t Find Me’.”

Art smiles. He holds Paul and lets him there for a long while. Paul takes everything in; the texture of Art, the smell, the sound, the movements, the presence; as if Art's a dying ember and soon the world will fade back into winter. Art’s chest is soft; he smells like sea salt and the streets after rain. Raging and quiet at the same time, fickle yet ancient. Art. The familiarity of him is so overwhelming, it stifles Paul a little. It's like being at home, back to the days when he had to set up a dinner table for the evening, to wait for Eddie to get out of the second floor bathroom in the morning, to share TV time with the rest of his family, to not play music too loudly, to abide his mother; restricted, limited, sheltered. But it's the time when Art was only a few steps away, when Art was always there. Tall and thin and frowning and giggling. What is he doing? Why did it take him this long to come?

“I made an album.”

“Oh?”

Paul nods. He pushes Art softly, allowing him a space to look up at Art’s face. “But not like that time when we were kids. I’m not… leaving you or anything. I just played some songs in a radio and the station received a bunch of calls asking for my album, so they recorded one. Wanna look at it? We might be able to compose a couple into something we can sing together.” He falls silent. “If we still do that.”

Art smiles and caresses Paul’s face. “I will always sing with you.”

Paul, having prepared his album for Art, quickly jumps out of the bed and rolls towards his bag. “Here. I like some of these. The, um, I Am A Rock is kinda funny. And the, uh, April Come She Will… It will sound great with your voice, I think. And this one, Leaves That Are Green…”

“Is this Kathy?”

Paul pauses, retreating a little, then nods.

“So, Kathy.”

Paul raises his eyebrow. “What about Kathy?”

“Nothing. You wrote a song for her.”

Paul shrugs. “She doesn’t make me sad.”

“Is that all, then? That’s all I’ve ever made you feel? Sad?”

“Art, what do you want?” Paul tosses the album on the bed. He narrows his eyes, judging. “You can’t say you mind this. Aren’t you also with… I don’t know, what’s her name again? Linda?”

Art beams a hateful glance at the album. The cover shows a picture of Paul, sitting by the side of a lake, snug in his sweater. In front of him, pretty and delicate, is Kathy. Art can’t ever compete with that. He might’ve known Paul longer, but it doesn’t matter even if Paul loves him more than he loves Kathy; Art can’t be with him.

Art closes his eyes and finds strength to calm down. “Yes, her name’s Linda.” He exhales softly, composing himself. “And she’s cute, Kathy.”

Paul scoffs with his hands on his hips, slightly reducing his anger. “She’s not _cute._ She’s beautiful.”

“I think you’re cute.”

“And I think _you’re_ beautiful. See the difference now?”

Art laughs. “No. No one can, Paul.”

“Ah, well,” Paul smiles. He looks around the room now. He _can_ just spend the night here. He has only a small gig. They don’t need to know about Art at all, to avoid questions, then he’d go back here, as if he’d reserved the place on his own. Won’t be very odd. Paul needs to come up with reason, but not really, if he’d just slip out politely. Art can do something on his own whilst waiting. No one’s gonna find out. Even if they do, it’s Art. It’s his oldest friend. Why not? He can say they’re just catching up. They are, anyway.

That’s a good plan. So he doesn’t understand why he said, “You wanna meet Kathy?”

Art lifts his eyebrow sarcastically. “Oh, gee, been waiting my whole life for that.”

Paul winces. “Don’t do that.”

But Art’s face is frozen now. He had something in his mind when he flew here, didn’t he? Paul has an idea. But they know—they _should_ have known—that there’s nothing they can do. This isn’t situation that Paul can fix with incessant badgering or blind optimism. What does Art expect? That Paul would make a petition to the Congress, or just somehow magically change the minds of all humankinds, so they can be together peacefully? Is that how things work, in his mind? He makes a wish, and Paul makes it true? He’s the one who has to put things in motion, is that it?

Ten minutes later, Paul’s back on the rainy street, guitar in his hand, anger smoking out of his ears. He’s going to return to Kathy tonight. He’s going to go back to life he knows he can live. Art can dream _his_ over for all he knows.


	2. When We Find Each Other Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul has to say goodbye.

Paul doesn’t have time for that anymore. He’s no longer _that_ Paul. Besides, with or without Artie, this life had been fun, so far. Paul took Kathy to Europe with him, for a while until she no longer can make his company. They parted ways with fondness and longing, kissing until they couldn’t avoid the final call anymore. Kathy looked at Paul with her big innocent eyes, whispering wishes for his homeward bound. Paul wrote songs for Kathy, her kisses still haunt him on the way across Europe.

It’s so much easier than his parting with Art. With Art, it’s always… heavy. Not in a good way. It’s always too complex, too unpredictable, leaving too many gaping wounds and open knots. Are they going to pick it up? _Really?_ Better move on, but _how?_ No, it’s never easy. Probably he should opt for one token of peacefulness in his life. This road he’s determined to take, it’s too rocky already. Kathy can be his peace. He doesn’t need that much grief.

Still, he carries the letter that Art wrote for him, which contained his secret invitation that had brought Paul to that grimy hotel room, and an exciting development about their song. It’s lurking, he said. It’s lurking around the top 100. Someone had remixed the song and it boomed. Sure, it doesn’t sound like the way Paul originally intended it to, but… But can he afford refusing the crowd?

He went to Denmark to attend his tour and to avoid news for as long as he can. The last time he’d checked, it’s climbing nearly halfway up to the top. But it can’t be, can it? No, it’s never going to be. Or… is it? Eddie had said that it’s the best lyrics he’d made. No, it’s the best song _Eddie’s ever heard in his entire life._ Okay, maybe not that exaggerated, but he was sincerely impressed. Paul knows that it’s good, but there’s a reason why he chose to leave the Village. No one felt that he belongs there. And nearly everyone feels that way, too. So, Paul is out in the world carving his own little cave; would take a while, but he can do it anywhere he wants this way, right? And this is what he’s doing. Out. Away. Building home elsewhere because where it once stood decided to kick him out.

Like Art.

No, not like Art. Art’s still there.

But European winter is colder than he’s used to. He wishes for someone to share his bed. Kathy, Artie, whoever. Even Eddie’s welcomed. Not for _that_ purpose, but just to be there. It’s lonely out here on his own. Is it funny that Paul doesn’t really wanna go home? He wants Kathy, his bed, his green sweater that he forgot in Kathy’s closet, sure. But this—touring, performing, music—he doesn’t want this to end.

Kathy would like it if he’s home all the time. Kathy always misses him. Darling Kathy.

 _Art_ would like to go with him.

This is not happening. Paul shakes his head, refusing the thoughts. He _will not_ split between Kathy and Art. It’s enough. That last time is enough. Cheap beer, cheap hotel, disappointment that lasts for months… No, that’s enough. Kathy’s warm. Kathy’s not cheap hotels; she’s home. He’s going back to her.

After a trail of delightful tours, Paul finally reaches England, once more falling into the cold arms of its winter. He’d made a full seasonal circle now; just a couple more months, and it’d be a full year. He would love to live here, forever, with Kathy. When he sees her quietly waiting for him in the railway station, he believes that that’s what he wants to tell her. But Kathy says something before it begins:

“Your friend called.”

***

When Paul can finally manage a call to New York, Artie, apparently, had been sitting on that tacky flowery chair that his mother put by the side of the telephone. He picked up and had said, “Paul?”, before Paul even said a word.

Paul sighs. “Yes, Artie. It’s me.”

“God! Where have you been? I’d been trying to reach you a hundred times! Do you have _any idea_ how difficult it is to make international call? Seriously, Paul!”

“Calm down.”

“I will _not_ calm down! You should not, too. Paul,” Artie draws a deep breath. In spite of what he said, he seems to be calming himself down, “The Sound of Silence is going up.”

The line goes dead. Or it seems so, because Paul can’t hear a single word. Or a single sound. Paul’s gone deaf. This is it, then. He’s Beethoven. Without the cool grey hair. He will have to buy a wig and a suit now.

“Paul, they want us to record a new album for… Paul, are you still there?”

Paul blinks, reality downing on him once more. He staggers, “Yes, I’m still here.”

“Can you come back?”

Reality. It keeps on punching Paul on the guts. What’s its beef, seriously?

***

Kathy cries. She cries through the night when Paul told her. It’s supposed to be a good news—Paul, making his dream, a big star now. But Kathy can’t handle it. She’s going to lose Paul. He’s going to be so famous, so… known.

“Kathy, please.” Paul knocks on the bedroom door. The sound of Kathy’s sniffling still bounces through the walls. “Please. I don’t want this, too.”

“Yes, you do,” Kathy answers, still choking on her sobs. “You’ve been wanting this since you were a child, you told me that. You came here for that, Paul. This is what you’ve been wanting.”

“That, yes. But I never wanted to part from you. Kathy, if you’d just come out and talk about this…” Paul bangs his head on the door now, frustrated. He needs to cry, too. This isn’t fair. He’s making up his mind about the whole thing. He _just_ did. He wants to stay with Kathy. He wants to stay with Kathy. Why should all this happen now? Why can’t it be years back, or years ahead, when Kathy’s just a dream or already his everything. "You can come to America with me again. Please, Kathy.”

“Don’t humour me, Paul.” The door unlocks. Paul takes one step backward, allowing a distance between him and Kathy. The door reveals her face, swollen and pale, safe for her scratched nose, which is red. She sobs in her adorable way, hurting Paul where it's gonna scar. “It’s gonna be different now. It’s gonna be you and your number one hit. I…” She sobs louder. “I can’t be a part of that.”

Paul falls into desperation now. He takes Kathy by the shoulder, squeezing and shaking her as gently as possible. “But why not? We can go together. You can find job there, too. I will be with you all the time, and…”

“Except you won’t.” Kathy never cuts anyone’s sentence before. Paul moves back, struck. She sobs again. “And it’s not about that, Paul. I just can’t… I can’t be the girl who’s always by your side when people… _your fans_ follow you around. I can’t be in that spot. I just can’t.”

“Kathy, why?” Paul rubs his palms over his face, feeling like screaming and crying at the same time. He listens to Kathy’s sobbing, suppressing his own sobs with difficulty. “Do you want me to stay?”

“I do,” says Kathy quickly. “But do you?”

Paul doesn’t know.

Except he probably does.


	3. When It’s Winter in New York

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul returns.

Paul feels like falling out of plane. When he lands, he definitely feels like it. Eddie’s been there to pick him up and congratulate him. But when he finds his brother at the arrival gate, Eddie can’t help but feeling that congratulations is _not_ in order.

“Why do you look so miserable?” he asks, on their way to the car. “I thought you’d be so happy, you’d chew my left ear off.”

Paul smirks at the remark. He drops his luggage in the trunk, shoving his guitar to the backseat, and slips to the front seat, by Eddie’s side. Eddie, whilst Paul was attending his luggage, had fumbled to switch the radio station to the one playing classical music to avoid the possibility of accidentally stumbling upon his song, grasping at his brother’s foul mood. Eddie the Blessed.

“Is it Art? Thought you’re not fighting anymore. Is it Kathy?”

Paul sighs loudly. “Yes, it’s Kathy.” He props his chin on his left hand, staring sulkily through the window. “She doesn’t wanna come.”

Eddie glances briefly at him, face surprised. “Did you break up?”

Paul nods.

Eddie sighs heavily, as if it’s _his_ breakup that was just announced. He reaches out to rub his brother’s shoulder, and drives on without anything else on the subject. Just father, happy mother, insufferable friends, new songs, guitar lessons, closed restaurants and new bagel places, over Beethoven.

***

New York in winter is a beautiful place. The soft snow paints the whole town white, like purification. Every rooftop is sprinkled with their own artificial stars, and even trees are dressed in style. Fashion is modest, bulky and heavy. When people open their mouths, they don’t only spit stupidity but also beautiful ghost of fog that clouds the atmosphere.

But instead of joining the joyous civilisation, Paul finds himself in a car. Art’s by his side, both leaning on their reclining seats. Their car is filled with smoke and both Paul and Art inhale hungrily as if they’d just been drowned. The radio’s on. Paul looks through the foggy car and towards the dark blue sky, quieting his rambling mind. On his side, on his way to his own hazy trip, Art shakes his head. “That Simon and Garfunkel. They must be having great time.”

Paul laughs at that, marvelling at how easy it is for Art to incite that sound out of him. But as soon as it comes out, it fades and Paul returns to his deep sadness. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “It’s not as if they’re just robbed a love story of a lifetime.”

“Hey, no one told you to come.”

“You did.”

“I asked.”

“What did you ask?”

“Not sure.”

They’re rambling. The intoxication had begun to kick in. Paul has a flitting thought on how to drive back home, but it’s closely followed by thoughts on things in crazy colours. Not sure what the colours were, but they were crazy. They danced naked on the streets, bragging about their golfing accidents. Art should be there. He tugs at Art’s sleeves—or what _feels_ like sleeves—and says, “Artie, Artie, look at how the reds could spin.”

“Paul, don’t pinch my nose, I can’t breathe.”

“Sorry.”

“Do you want nachos?”

“No. I’d prefer nachos.”

They keep going for a while. Art’s begun to sob at the thought of the absence of nachos and Paul laughs at him. Paul opens the dashboard, finding a small pack of crisps and struggles with the packaging. It opens with a big tear and he screams victoriously after finding out that not a single crisp was spilled. He reaches out to grab a handful and stuffs them into Art’s mouth, who cries and says, between munches, “I love you, man.”

“I think someone’s watching us.”

“Is it your Mom?”

Paul looks around, trying to find his mother, who seems to be standing behind a tree. The parking lot seems dangerously dark and empty. But his Mom surely would’ve made a celebration out of today’s news. What a perfect new year, she’d say. She’d let Paul have anything he wants. Well, he wants a way out. He wants Kathy. He wants this. He wants to have both of them.

Paul crawls out of his seat and towards Artie’s. He’s lying limp on the seat, still munching on non-existent crisps. When they kiss, Artie’s mouth tastes like salt and vinegar. Paul’s fingers are swollen to the size of Godzilla, so it’s difficult to unzip his pants. He has to be careful not to dent his belt with his giant fingers. “Oh, that’s my fingers.”

Art chuckles and it won’t stop. It tickles when Paul rubs him inside the briefs. It tickles and it’s…

“Paul, that’s good.”

Paul knocks his forehead on Art’s when they kiss. But it’s magical. It’s intense, it’s stupendous… Art moans loudly into Paul’s mouth. Their tongues seem to be so dry, it’s nice to have a drink. It’s nice to drink each other’s saliva. Somehow.

“Art,” Paul pants on Art’s ear. Art moans again, relishing the sensation. Paul groans lowly, pushing his lips to Art’s ear. “Art, get in.”

“Where?”

“Meeeeee.” Paul stumbles on his pants. He leans on Art, trying to shimmy away from the ankle trap. Art stares at their laps, their members seem to grow. Art has to giggle. Paul doesn’t seem to be sure how things are supposed to work, then he remembers that it’s usually the other way around. He freezes, confused. “What do we do now?”

“We can use your songs from that… that thing. The English one.”

Paul shakes his head. “No, Artie, I only speak English. _All_ of my songs are in English.”

“No, I mean, that album. That you made in England. The one with… with Kathy on the front. With you.” Art looks at the roof of the car, dozing. He mumbles, “I think you’re right. That song… That Kathy’s Song is good. We should use that. And we can, uh, we can dedicate the whole album to Kathy.”

“Aw, no, Artie, Kathy’s gone.” He pounces at Art and violently drops his head on Art’s shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably.

Art, unsure and high, confusedly pats Paul on the back. “She’s dead?”

“No, no. She’s alive. She’s just… gone.” Paul mumbles a lot of nonsensical syllables and, “We broke up. She doesn’t want to be in magazines.”

“They _are_ very small. Suppose it can get cramped, even for her.”

“I know. I know.”

Art feels their members brushing and it makes him feel good. He pushes Paul onto his chest, letting them rub against each other more. He closes his eyes and keeps on moving Paul, still sobbing in his neck, until he finds release. He looks down annoyed at his now-wet shirt, then lights up. “Hey, Paul, we can use this.”

“For—for the song? For Kathy?”

“No, no, who cares about Kathy.”

“I do.”

Art mumbles, but he, in his delirious state, no longer cares to really reply. He can’t be more turned on now. He reaches for Paul and indelicately stabs a finger in. Paul shrieks, but not very much in pain. Confused, horny, Paul tightens his arms around Art’s neck, nearly choking him. Neither pays much attention. Paul just wants Artie in and Artie just wants to get in.

Art’s fingers are long, probing deep. The parting forces air out of Paul, who’s gasping like fish out of the water. It feels good. His breath is warm. Art feels the need to be careful to slide in, feeling inexplicable dread of splitting Paul in two, so he moves in slowly. Paul makes an odd noise that lies between a whimper, a sob and a complaining moan. Art makes another screeching-door noise, biting on his lip, trying to subside the heightened sensations he’s feeling.

The radio host decided to play another turn for their song and the car’s filled with electrified version of it. It makes Paul upset and it brings an end to Art’s attempt for slow intrusion; Paul’s sat on him angrily and he yelped and groaned at his decision. “You don’t care that it sounds like that, do you?” he accuses Art.

Honesty swarms Art’s jelly head and he shakes it. Paul makes another leap of anger, hitting Art on the shoulders as he goes. And it keeps going. And it keeps going. He screams out every little thing that went wrong: Kathy, England, Art, the song, the charts, people, America, pigs, sheep and wolves and everything that he can think of. His mind’s playing trick. This isn’t supposed to feel good. All of his misfortunes and loss and partings, it’s not supposed to feel good. Joints are crazy. He shouldn’t smoke that no more.

Paul cries at the end of it. He curls himself as packed as he could, still on Art’s lap, and cries. By that time, the intoxication had worn off, but he’s still crying. It’s not the high; he really is sad. Art, a little late to regain his senses, had done nothing but easing off his turned-on state. He thought about the white stains all over the car and himself and pondered upon their origins… until reality sinks back in.

“Paul,” he calls, softly. Art shakes him gently. “Paul, stop crying.”

Paul doesn’t move.

“Paul, you’ve been waiting for this your whole life.” Art shakes more. “The charts, the song, the people, music, singing. You’ve been waiting for this. This is your dream. This _has_ been your dream. With or without Kathy, you’re living it. Isn’t that why you’re back?

“Now we will always sing together.”

***

On his side, Art is still sleeping on his belly, snoring softly and drooling. He sounds a bit like singing, even in his sleep.

Paul ignores that. He takes a deep breath and tries to compose himself. His eyes are still swollen from the night-long crying, it’s almost difficult to see. He’d told Art he didn’t want to go home, last night. So they agreed to sneak into a hotel room to cool it off. Which is their way of saying that they’re going to have sex.

Art stirs. Paul drowns the worry under currents of abnormal relief and gratefulness to find Art there, alive and sleepy, and naked and with him. He rubs his eyes, taking in his surrounding slowly, before returning his gaze to Paul. “Hello.”

Paul frowns. “Bad timing for that word.”

Art snorts a weak laughter and rubs his eyes again. “Still on that?”

“Yes, I’m still on that! How could they…” Paul shuts off, his shoulders slump in defeat. “Well, it’s done, isn’t it? It’s out there, it’s everywhere, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

Art nods. “Yes, but there’s still something you can do _with_ it.”

Paul lies on his back, shooting angry glares at the ceiling. Oh, that’s what Art wants, isn’t it? Using his songs and just move on with it. Never mind Kathy, who _could_ be the love of his life, or…

Whatever. It’s done anyway.

“Which songs do you want to use?”


	4. When Paul Fears the Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon & Garfunkel making the stage.

Things seem to come to either break Paul away from Kathy, or to get him together with Art, or to bring him what he deserves, whatever that means. Either way, Art was right. He’s doing this, with or without Kathy, and he’d been dreaming of this for long enough to let this go. Even for a real love.

He made his promises, after all. For Art, more stages, more audience, more lights… more. For Eddie, too. He took his near-identical brother with him to the studio and would later drag him to the stage, confusing audience who wouldn’t know which was which had it not been for their clothes. Art sang Kathy’s Song beautifully. He did say he likes the song. “And it’s not like I have anything against Kathy,” he said. Lies. It’s fine.

Things are getting better with Art, too. They spend a lot more time together, writing and reading. Art’s taking more and more interest in poetry and Paul’s happy to give him all suggestions he cares to hear. They’d spend mornings sitting on Art’s dining table, drinking coffee—Art with sugar, Paul just black—and eating cereals, reading books or newspapers or writing and singing.

For Art, this is what he wants for the rest of his life. Paul bought a single sunflower for their table and sang a song he learned in England, which Art loves and always loves to hear in the morning when he wakes up to find Paul already there, strumming on his guitar dreamily. Add his popularity and his voice that he loves so much, _and_ his steady education; Art has everything he could ever ask for. Except Paul still enjoys mulling and being miserable. Perhaps it’s just the way he is, but isn’t it a wrong way to approach this nice turn of event?

“Artie, damn.” He was happy this one time that they went on a tour and stayed over at Holiday Inn. He was saying this as they stormed in. He’d dropped all his belongings and was practically jumping at the sight of his bed. “That’s one of those beds! That bed! The kind that can vibrate! Look! Look, there’s the slot! Oh, this is great!”

He jumped like a little boy. Little Paul.

They laid in bed, laughing at their vibrating backs, enjoying the luxury they’re introduced to. It’s odd how rich they are already. None of them feel it to be frightening, just… unexpected. They go on living their usual life; questionable choice of wardrobe, maternal attachment and paternal suffocating expectations (“Oh, Paul, why can’t you just be teacher?”), getting high, laughing on the road, bickering. And they have sex. A lot. It’s on the road, they’re sharing room, so what’s there to do? Art loves it. Art loves every single part of it. Why can’t Paul? Is it because it’s Art? Is it really just because it’s the way he is?

The thing is, Paul’s probably still sad about Kathy. Was he really _that_ genuine about that girl? Maybe. It’s disturbing, though. Art’s wished he wasn’t.

“Art,” one day he said, whilst eating his toast in Art’s kitchen, face intently fixed on newspaper, “I met Peggy.”

***

Is this how things are going to go now? Both of them will date other people _and_ each other. Does that work? Can they split their minds like that?

Paul might be able to do that. His first and most important lady is music anyway. It feels a little unfair, though, how these girls don’t need to have blessed voice to get to Paul. Art’s got all the benefit and yet he’s the one who has to hide. He’s the one destined to be by Paul’s side, that’s definite. Or it feels like it. Art can’t push it out of his head, his situation with Paul. Suppose he knows it’s the way they’re going; suppose that’s why Paul’s been very cool about the whole thing—Paul’s more calculative than Art, he sure would’ve expected this. The only stupid thing is that Art still expects things to _not_ go this way.

So anyway, he owes it to Paul to not be a jerk about it. Especially, not on stage. He would sing the best he could—shouldn’t be too difficult. Paul and Art had selected their own songs for the performance. They’re just going to show up, talk a sentence or two, then Paul will strum his guitar and the two of them would sing. The problem is, when it’s a standing performance, Art still hasn’t found good things to do with his hands. Should he put it behind his back, or is that way too casual? In front, perhaps, but he’s not a princess. By his side? He’s not in navy. Why not make things fun and put it up, then? Pretend someone’s holding a gun at him or something. Art chuckles at his own imagination.

That’s when Art realises how quiet Paul’s being. He would’ve asked Art what the chuckle’s about, but he’s got nothing. Art puts his hand on Paul’s shoulder, trying to get his attention, but Paul doesn’t turn around. When Art forces his way to see Paul’s face, he finds it paper-white with red, bulging eyes.

“Oh, God, Paul!” Art begins to panic. He shoots up, twisting his head to every direction he can manage. Paul looks like he’s dying. Surely there’s a medic?

Someone in the medic notices Art’s owl-like stunt and comes approaching. Both of them crouches in front of unblinking, bluish Paul. The medic examines him, who’s cold and trembling and sweaty. Art panics, turning himself as cold and trembling and sweaty. He says, “Paul, talk to me. Are you alright? Did you eat lox?”

A hint of frown tugs at Paul’s eyebrows, but they failed to accomplish their mission. Paul, lips almost blue, shakes his head and says, “No, Art. I just thought… I can’t.”

“What? What do you mean?” Art takes a hold of Paul’s hand, squeezes his fingers. “What can’t you do?”

“Perform.”

“In bed?”

Surprised, Paul breaks a smile. Colour returns slightly to his face and he sighs weakly. “You know, if I’m not this wrecked, I would actually beat you with my guitar.”

The medic smiles at Paul, then looks up at Art. “Mystery solved, then. Stage frights. The first time?”

Art nods. “We all came with conclusion that the man has no fear. Not in good, dare-devil way, but rather in desensitised robot sort of way…”

“I think he gets it, Art.”

The medic nods, then pats Art on the arm. “I think you’d better talk to him, calm him down. I’ll try to see if they can stall your performance a bit. Why not step outside? Fresh air, away from the stage, might be good. Just be sure you can come back in.”

Art nods. He quickly drags Paul by the wrist and leads him through the back door. Without waiting for the door to swing close, Art hugs Paul tightly. It takes a while until Paul returns the hug, hesitantly. Art can hear his whispering, “I’m sorry, Artie.”

“Hey, don’t say that.” Art shakes his head, brushing his nose on Paul’s hair. “I get nervous all the time. So it’s your first, so what? Hey, does that ring a bell? Like, from the time you were a virgin? Oh, God, you’re not anymore, are you? I’m sorry, I don’t mean to offend you. I think it’s nice that you wait until marriage and all.”

Paul laughs. “Shut up.” He has an impulse to pull away from Art, but somehow decided against it. Instead, he holds tighter, closer. “It’s just… this whole thing seems to come at the wrongest time, Artie. What if… what if it _is_ wrong? What if I should’ve pursued something much less nonsensical? Maybe I should’ve stayed in law school…”

“You literally called that ‘a wasted year’, Paul.”

“… or be a teacher, like my Dad wants me to…”

“And, what, turn your class into a choir?”

Paul laughs and finally breaks from Art. He wants to add something either snarky or sappy on top of Art’s remark, but he only has energy to smile at the blond man. Art can’t resist but cupping his face, caressing him softly on the face. Paul leans into the contact, brushing himself more on Art’s skin, almost like a cat.

Paul closes his eyes and sighs sadly. “You know, no one makes me laugh like you do.”

Art offers him the kindest smile and strokes gently. “What’s that like?”

“Effortlessly. So much so. Like, you don’t even have to try. You just exist and you make me smile.” Paul looks down at his shoes. His well-polished black shoes. “Is it simplistic to think that it could be the reason why you exist in the first place?”

“Not simplistic. Hopeful. Loving. And incredibly selfish. So, you know. Paul.”

Paul grins. “Shut up. Okay, I’m alright now. Let’s do this shit. Don’t think we have more time to get all sappy here, do we?”

Art shakes his head no, then grabs Paul’s face with both hands and kisses him on the mouth. Big, dramatic, sweetly simple; very Art. Paul wants to write songs about this kiss. It makes him think of pink petals and tulip fields, reminding him of fresh morning and beautiful days where Art is there, funny and sensitive, singing like an angel. Somehow this mouth gives him everything he’d ever needed: a voice to love, a kiss to desire, a whisper that life’s worth living. How are things that are so beautiful so difficult to attain?

They hold hands with their foreheads pressed against each other for what feels—or was hoped—to be forever. Finally, Paul looks up and nod reluctantly. He began to turn around with Art’s hand still in his.

Fame is waiting inside. The songs Paul wrote for the two of them, then the songs Paul wrote when he’s haunted by the memory of them, then songs Paul wrote to run away from them; they’re a part of the world now. And it’s always beautiful to stay there, at the stage; they’re just Paul and Art, singing, soaring. Under the spotlight, they are just two white lies, shoulders touching and nothing more.

They both return to their hotel in quiet ride. When they close the bedroom door, they know no one is in the mood of doing that. They look at each other awkwardly, not really knowing what this lustless night means. Should they do it anyway, to avoid uncomfortable situation? Can they blame it on exhaustion?

“Where do we go tomorrow?” Art breaks the silence. Paul grapples at the answer, unsure, but Art’s answered his own question. He recites their whole schedule, slightly marvelling at the list of their success. For Paul, it sounds like long nights of serial exhaustion. Even hearing it gives him stage frights.

Paul leans his body back to the door, his mouth opens in slow deliberation.

“Artie, take me to the Mardi Gras.”


	5. When They Can't Find Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art takes Paul to the Mardi Gras.

Why did Art even agree to this? Oh, that’s right. Because Paul asked. Simple as that. _Is it simplistic,_ Paul had asked earlier. No, it’s never simple. He’s never simple. _Art_ is simple. He does what Paul wants. Or, ultimately.

Paul’s on the front seat, folding his legs on the seat of the rental car. He seems gigglish, happy, like a child finally on the way to the promised Disneyland. Paul can look oddly aged at times, but there are times like this when he’s sincerely excited that he looks so much younger than he actually is. Paul talks about the way Art smiles a lot, but he can give him a run for his money. He’s lovely when he doesn’t think that smiling might give him incurable disease.

Art’s pretty good with directions, so Paul knows he doesn’t really need to look at the map. He looks through the side windows, watching trees darken as they drive further towards New Orleans. The streetlamps flit like comets as they roll through the street. The spattering raindrops prolong the stay of their lights. Paul feels like he’s wrapped inside a blanket of stars.

He clears his throat, disturbing the heavy silence. “Do you think we can stop?”

Art turns his head a little, still slightly discouraged to stir seemingly-wrecked Paul. “Not really, but we’ll find a rest area in about half an hour or so. Need something?”

Paul shrugs. “Not really. Just thought it’s nice here.”

“What’s so nice? This is just an empty road.”

“ _Not_ the road, Artie,” he sighs, as if it’s obvious. “Just the… everything, you know? The temperature, the volume of brightness…”

“Sure, Christina Rosetti.” Art turns his gaze back to the road. He smirks at the recognisable sulking gesture from Paul’s seat. “Alright. Say we stop and no car happens to exist in the world to crash on us. What are you going to do in the middle of the street? Go out, sit on the hood and watch the stars?”

Paul frowns stubbornly. “I might.”

Art shakes his head. “It’s raining. You’ll catch cold.”

“I might also kiss you out there. Who cares if it’s raining then?”

A little smile tugs on Art’s lips. He’s not sure if Paul’s being amusing or worrying, but he’s absolutely disturbed. Art knows that; and yet, he’s still tempted to take advantage of the breakdown. What’s happening anyway? Should he ask Paul now and wreck the whole travel, what with the mood Paul’s in?

“Don’t ask questions, Artie.” Paul grins when Art looks at him, surprised. He snickers and throws himself heavily to the back of his chair, sighing loudly. “Oh, Artie. Your forehead might as well be chalkboard and you can spare yourself from heart attack by writing all your thoughts there for the world to see.”

Art laughs. “Okay, there are much simpler and less derogatory ways to say that you understand what’s on my mind.”

“I know. But they’re less hurtful, so they’re less fun.” They exchange another short round of laughter. Paul returns to the window, sighing. His lunatic eyes are gone now. Now he’s just… thoughtful. Very Paul.

Art resumes the driving.

***

People in the hotel are way too sleepy to recognise them, although it’s still debatable whether he’s going to recognise them at all—he’d probably just peg them as another set of hitchhiking tourists from other state. Which isn’t far from the truth, except they didn’t hitchhike. Anyway, Paul—the less conspicuous, they decided, since he does not own a noteworthy dandelion hair—obtains the key to their room without much exchange, and they walk sleepily to the farthest room in the hotel. They have to keep their hoodies and caps and glasses on since the hotel’s packed to the brim, it being Mardi Gras and all, but they manage to get to their bedroom alright.

Paul winces at Art when he closes the door. “We’re going to have to think of how to get breakfast tomorrow, aren’t we?”

Art laughs. “You’re concerned about _that_? I’m concerned that you’d lost your sanity. Paul, we have _another_ concert in 2 days.”

“Yes, but that’s only like 2 hours away from here, so we’re good.”

Art narrows his eyes, glaring at Paul. “You drive, then.” Paul replies with a daring grin. Hesitating, after a moment of worrying for his life, Art adds. “No, forget it. I’ll drive. Fine. Do what you want.”

Paul laughs and strides into the bedroom, then throws himself on the bed. The hotel ran out of room, they’d said; this is their last one, what with the whole Mardi Gras thing, with all tourists pouring in. So they had to make do with double bed, the receptionist said. Very innocently.

Art settles himself down by Paul’s side, lifts Paul’s head and drops it on his lap. He cradles Paul’s head as if it’s made of egg shell. Paul’s eyes flutter peacefully as Art moves his hand to stroke Paul’s hair, very gently. The steady rhythm puts him into a sort of trance and Art himself finds a bizarre tranquillity in the mundane repetition. For a long time, the peacefulness of the moment silences them, stranding them in an absent reverie where nothing exists but frictions between their skins, the sound the rustling hair makes. In the distance, they can hear festivities run their course; people are dancing, singing, parading in glittery dresses, screaming and shouting and yelling and yelping, running and drinking, laughing and smiling. It’s as if their bed lies a dimension apart, just beyond thin shelter of a door.

Paul is the first to speak. “Artie, I didn’t take you here to have sex.”

Art raises his eyebrow. “Oh?”

Paul shakes his head softly, locking his eyes with Art. “No, I just want to do this. I want to know if this is…” Paul pauses. He rolls and hugs Art’s waist, burying his face on the stomach. Art is unsure, but he finds himself fighting the need to cry all the same. He squeezes Paul’s shoulder, encouraging him to go on. “I want to know if I want to be with you. Not for the sex, not for your voice, just… you.”

Art nods, not sure to what. He wipes a rolling tear before it drops to hit Paul and tries to stop before it turns to a storm. Paul, noticing, looks up and sits to hug Art until the storm becomes uncontainable and Art can’t avoid drowning himself between the storm and Paul’s shoulder. His thoughts are swirling in his head, exciting every single word he'd been hiding, rousing them to a march, demanding their liberation. Art clamps his mouth shut, but it's been too long, they've become way too strong. He sobs and chokes and lets himself be defeated.

“Paul, I love you.”

Paul kisses Art on the cheek, brushing his lips to dry the tears. It feels like the first kiss he gave Art; years ago, on the creaking chair, in that one summer night. That night was quiet and this one is loud; it was hot then, tonight has been cold. But the feelings resurfaced—the relief, the surprise, the joy, the finality, the desperation of that night… The more they kiss, the more Art cries. When Paul finds Art’s lips, the pleas for him to wait for the answer sound loud enough that Art feels temporarily deafened; his eyes, closed, are blinded; the only thing he recognises is Paul—Paul’s lips, Paul’s tongue, Paul’s teeth, Paul’s fingers on the back of his neck, Paul’s arm on his lower back, Paul’s body in his arms. The world suddenly shrinks itself into Paul and Art has nowhere else to go.

No one can find them in this one world.

***

That would’ve been the longest they’ve ever kissed—possibly combined. But even then—they had to part because Art feels that his jaw was dislocating and Paul had begun to hyperventilate for some reasons—it still doesn’t feel like enough. Art still wants to go on. If only there’s a way to keep their lips glued together without it looking very weird or causing any inconvenience or whatever.

“Paul,” Art calls, which was answered by a weak mumble. “Have you ever written anything for me?” Paul tilts his head, probably thinking. “Besides the obvious.”

Paul laughs. “Which one’s obvious?”

“Su-ure, like we’ve never sat on a table drinking coffee, reading Emily Dickinson and Robert Frost, and _literally_ exchanged ‘is the theatre really dead?’ or anything.” Paul giggles in his endearing way. Art kisses Paul on the temple and smiles. “Am I really starting to feel like a stranger to you?”

Paul’s eyes are big and sad. There’s nothing in the world that looks as deeply wounded in milk chocolate colour like Paul’s eyes do. “I missed you for a long time, Artie. And anywhere we moved, or are moving, I always lost one version of you in every turn.”

“People change, Paul.”

Paul shakes his head. “Not so painfully.”

Art frowns. “Why am I always a sad topic for you, Paul? Didn’t we used to have fun when we were kids?”

“Ha. You hated me when we were kids.”

Art laughs and refuses. “No, I didn’t. I just thought you’re weird and you’re insane and you might kill me.”

Paul grins. “Stick to that warning, Garfunkel. And anyway, we still _do_ have fun. I like recording songs with you. I like going on the stage. Just…” He props his head on Art’s chest, holding him closer. Paul sighs wearily, suddenly feeling the exhaustion of long travel. “Well, it drains you, don’t you think? Not like I’m tired of doing it or any of that, just that I want a room to breathe. It feels like I can’t afford it lately. Am I being a brat?”

“A bit. Go on.”

“Ha-ha, screw you.” Paul hesitates, then goes on. “And… we’re forced to be together all the time. Does it bother you? I mean, we used to see each other on our own accord. Our meetings happened because we wanted to see each other. And now, we’re… I don’t know. Doesn’t it feel exhausting?”

Art clears his throat, hurt. “You’re saying, you’re tired of me?”

“No, no, it’s not like that. It’s just, we’re given so little choice nowadays. I don’t like that, you know? It makes me confused whether I want to see you or I _have_ to see you. And when I’m frustrated, whether I’m frustrated with you or because I suck at singing or something.”

“Seriously, Paul, you _don’t suck at singing._ ”

“Yeah, yeah, that aside. You get what I mean.” Art does. But neither shares anything on that topic anymore. They somehow go still, limp, as if the truth had taken what energy they have left.

Finally, Paul talks again. “Artie, I will always be sad about you. Whatever I do, there’s always a chance that I might lose you. Most of all, Artie, I don’t want that. I’m always afraid when it comes to you, it’s maddening.” He presses his forehead on Art’s chest. “The truth is, I don’t think I’d ever written a song that’s not at least a little about you.”

Art slips his fingers through Paul’s hair, stroking absently. “Even Kathy’s Song?”

“Read the lyrics again, Garfunkel.”

Art smiles, closing his eyes. Somehow the world seems to be too scary to see now. “Oh, Paul, you just don’t make things easy, do you?”

Paul laughs, the warm breath and vibration tingles. “You know, I really thought you could see through that.”

“You thought— Okay, Paul, _no one can,_ okay?” Art laughs and shakes his head in disbelief. “You know, I don’t read cryptic messages. Just go straight with me.”

“Oh, asking a boy he’s sleeping with to go straight with him. Rich. Very rich, Garfunkel.”

Art slaps Paul on the head and snickers. “Shut up. You get what I mean. Anyway… Mardi Gras?”

Somehow finding new source of energy, both boys run up to wash their faces. Paul leaps to the closest costume shop and goes back to the hotel with an armful of odd-looking articles. “What? I didn’t know which hat’s gonna fit that giant head of yours” is his only defence, and in a few minutes—after a short yelling about how Art shouldn’t have hit him—they stomp on the street looking like what unicorn might vomit on the peak of sugar high. Paul runs like cheetah through the crowd, occasionally losing the less nimble Art to frantically get out of the human sandwich on his own. Unsure but eventually deciding that it’s the best thing to do, Paul snatches Art’s wrist and doesn’t let go.

They stuff their mouths with any food sample they can find, discovering that there’s such thing as king cake vodka and off to find the infamous king cake itself. Art finds the little trinket in the cake and lets Paul have it before moving on to catch anything people throw in the carnival. A giggling family offers Paul to sit on their stairs, which is accepted with glee, and Paul snatches more beads and toys than anyone can contain in their bedrooms. They hand it all to the kids they pass through, making their own little carnival all the way to the closest food stall. Drunk Paul somehow got someone to give him a horse. Art, unsurprisingly high and very hungry, giggles from the side, watching Paul being carried away to the distance and eats as many king cakes as he can, hiding all the secret trinkets inside his tucked shirt. Against all odds, they find each other again and dunk into yet another bar, getting themselves another round of fried food platter, buying two bottles of weird-coloured alcoholic something, then dash back to the hotel with a sack of candies Art believes to be robbed by Paul from someone on the street. They share their loots in the hotel room, both eating, drinking and laughing until they black out.

In the morning, they wake up simultaneously to the glaring sunlight. Paul begins hiccupping and Art stumbles on his own feet, trying desperately to find coffee. Finding none, he settles for water, carrying another glass for Paul, who receives gratefully. Their stomachs ache from the sugar, their heads are drilled by hangover. When Paul hiccups again, both break in laughter that they quickly silence due to another wave of headache, which incites more laughter.

“I’m gonna take shower. We’ll get coffee then scamper,” Paul says, still massaging his temples. Art nods, agreeing.

“Artie.” Paul stands up, already making his way to the bathroom. Art says yes to his back. “I love you.

“I’m gonna marry Peggy.”


	6. When Pain Gets Unbearable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a rainy morning.

The next few months flew by and Art has no recollection of his glorious tour at all. Did they go to Oklahoma? They seemed so. How did Los Angeles look like? No idea. What did he say in his performance in Seattle? Oh, that was _before_ New Orleans.

New Orleans. What happens now? Is Paul really marrying Peggy? Who the hell is Peggy anyway, and how did Paul know her? Surely, he’d told Art. Art knows, really. He just can’t recall. He can’t recall anything. His world seems to exist in singular, short episodes that keeps on moving on without any rerun. Quick, forgotten, trivial.

Art might as well be dead. Can he really do this? No. He can’t watch Paul get married. He surely _can’t_ get married to Paul, so what’s there to argue with? That he loves Paul anyway? That Peggy surely can’t love Paul more than he? That people _can_ be in love and together _without_ marriage?

That Paul loves him, too?

At the end of the tour, Art spends his time taking Paul’s role to be individually miserable. He spends his time in bed, mulling over his limited time with Paul, with everything, as if one of them is about to die. It surely feels like it, at least. He cries onto his pillow, listening to heart-wrenching records or reading sad books just to have reasons to cry other than Paul. He _can’t_ be obsessed by the fact that Paul, somewhere, is planning his engagement with Eddie or some other man that hasn’t seen him naked. Okay, Eddie would’ve, but that’s not the point.

 _Paul, have you ever written a song about me?_ If every song was haunted by Art, then surely there’s a clue, right? When did he start feeling that this is over? Wednesday Morning—was it Art’s hair that’s floating on the pillow? Not surprising if Paul had a psycho-stalker episode of staying up all night watching Art in his sleep. What’s this—Bleecker Street—was it _his_ smiling face who’s trying to understand? Paul’s insane; Art surely can’t be smiling when trying to understand him. Maybe that’s what he thought Art’s what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-this-guy’s face looks like—like he’s smiling. Whatever, things just don’t register normally in the head of an alien. What else? What else?

_We’re just a habit, like saccharin._

Is that it, then, Paul? It’s over?

Art screams to his pillow.

“Art? Is everything alright?”

Art jumps at the voice. He finds Linda on the doorstep. She must’ve let herself in.

Right. Art has a girlfriend, too. Maybe he should marry _her_ and see how Paul likes that. No, no, that’s mean. He can’t marry a woman out of spite. But isn’t that what Paul is doing? Or it’s… not. Who knows? WHAT _IS_ PAUL DOING!?

Linda stammers, clearly taken aback. “Oh, I think… I think he’s just… I don’t know, writing songs?”

Oh. Art screamed that out loud.

Linda sits carefully at the edge of the bed, looking at Art with worried eyes. “Art, what’s going on?” Linda. Linda is sweet. She’s beautiful, and she’s smart, and she’s sweet. “Are you having troubles with Paul?” She’s not Paul.

Art shakes his head, trying to think of anything that’s not Paul. Can’t do. Better lean into it. “Linda, did you know that Paul’s proposing to Peggy?”

“Oh!” Linda smiles. From the way she smiles, she _definitely_ knows Peggy. Which means Art had seen Peggy and Linda had too. Of course he had. He’s Paul’s best friend; of course he would’ve met Paul’s girlfriend sometimes, somewhere. Not Kathy, though. How could he know Peggy but not Kathy? Maybe he doesn’t know Peggy after all. Linda’s enthusiasm, upon seeing Art’s angry forehead, quickly collapses into confusion. “That’s great, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure.” Art looks at his bedsheet. It’s white. It’s nothing like Paul. Paul’s psychedelic neon colours. Crazy yellows and glow-in-the-dark greens. “Do you think we should plan our clothes now?”

Linda laughs. “Art, he hasn’t even proposed yet.”

“Well, she’s definitely gonna say yes, isn’t she? What’s there not to say yes to? It’s Paul, for God’s sake. She _will_ say yes. She’s stupid if she doesn’t. I mean, it’s Paul. He’s the greatest person in the world, what with his nice songs and guitar and, and, everything. The world doesn’t even deserve to have him in it, and…” Art pauses, drawing a deep breath, trying to sound normal. Trying to _be_ normal. How to do that again? Wasn’t Art the normal one? In comparison to Paul, that is. He’s the normal, not obsessive one with head definitely not in the clouds and feet firmly on the ground. What’s happening now? How did he come to be… this?

Linda sighs and places her arm on Art’s shoulders. “Art, it’s gonna be fine. He’s not gonna leave you.”

Art snaps, surprised. “What do you mean?”

Linda shrugs. “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve seen this a lot. When someone you’re close with is getting married or having a kid or something, you get oddly jealous and out of control, feeling abandoned and left behind, and all that. Let me tell you, Art, that’s not gonna happen with you and Paul. You’d known each other since you’re like, what, 10?”

“11,” Art corrected. He frowns. “Me, at least. He’d known me since we were in the 3rd grade. Have I ever told you that?”

“Yes, hun.”

“God, that man’s weird.”

Linda nods in exaggerated slow motion, drawing a small laughter from Art. He’s out of energy now. He can’t go on being depressed and obsessed about Paul anymore this afternoon. It might come back again in the evening, but Linda’s here. She’s going to be able to divert his thoughts. Probably.

Architecture. Who has time for that? Not Paul. Definitely not Paul.

***

On an odd Thursday morning, Paul comes to visit. He marched in unannounced, spare key abused and clothes wet with rain. Art hasn’t woken up, having himself a very late mental torture picturing Paul and Peggy in their wedding attires, without Linda who’s away to finish her always-demanding works. Paul, already familiar with the shape and texture of Art’s apartment, makes himself at home and starts with coffee. It’s the smell that woke Art up.

“You’re not Linda,” Art says, upon his arrival in the kitchen.

Paul grins. “What gave it away?”

Art grumbles, not in the mood of joking. Never in the mood anymore, he swore. He’ll never laugh at anything Paul says, ever again. He’s gonna be grumpy. Yes, that’s perfect. Be grumpy. Paul deserves it. “What do you want, Paul?” Nailed it.

“Bacon.”

“I’m telling your Mom.”

Oh, no. No, no, no, Art’s not supposed to make him laugh. Too late. He did. He has such a fun laughter. But also sad. Why is Paul always sad? Why is he always bothered?

“Anyway.” Paul puts down two mugs on the kitchen counter. He pours the coffee and offers the white mug to Art. It says MACON, GEORGIA, a gag-gift Paul bought him when they toured to Georgia. He’d snuck to the town to buy that one souvenir mug, causing riot among the staffs.

“Did you propose?” Art’s voice was cold. Good. It’s a question meant to be delivered coldly. Like a pate. Or jelly.

Paul looks briefly at Art, visibly uncomfortable. He nods. Then, hesitantly, “Will you come to the wedding?”

Art shrugs and begins to sip on his mug. Paul’s stirred in two sugar for him. That’s nice. No, don't be glad that Paul knows things about him. Be mad. Be mad that he knows everything about Art and wouldn't be together with Art anyway. “It’d be weird if I don’t, so, yes.”

Paul nods slowly. Then he offers a bag of bagels for breakfast. Art takes the egg bagel which he knows was bought especially for him— _who_ eats egg bagels, said his mother. Paul tosses a small tub of cream cheese and picks a butter knife from a kitchen drawer. Art frowns at the odd-looking food Paul’s nursing in his hands. “What the hell _is_ that?”

Paul shrugs. “New variety, thought I’d give it a shot. Margherita bagel.”

“That’s not a bagel.”

“It’s a bagel.” Paul defies Art by taking a large bite and chews. “See? Got stuck in my teeth and can’t have it swallowed. Bagel.”

Art laughs and nods, tamely spreading cream cheese on his own normal yellow bagel. When he lifts it to his mouth, he stops to regret the laughter; he _just_ promised he won’t. Is there a do-over? No, no, Paul’s smiling at him now. That means he’s amused that Art’s laughed. Damn it.

They try to not talk about things other than their customised list of best bagel flavours (both accused one another for being a sociopath for not placing either everything bagel or garlic bagel at the top on their list), but when the breakfast time is over, they’re led to awkward forest of things they have to talk about. They try to prolong the silence by focusing on their cooling beverages, but Paul eventually clears his throat.

“Artie, I’m sorry.”

Art tightens his grip on the mug, as if trying to break it with his fingers. Apparently, he’s not Hulk. He hisses between his teeth, “Why?”

“I have to try,” Paul sighs. “You said… You said I’m never normal, didn’t you? I thought I should try, at least this one. I think… I think I have to. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be normal. You’re where you are because you’re not.”

“Artie, I’ve had enough weird in my life.”

“Is that me?”

Paul shakes his head and takes another gulp of coffee. Art follows him, just so he can do something to. Or to compete. Who knows? He just doesn’t want to be left behind. He’s Paul. He’s Paul, just in another body. They’re one person. They can’t be doing different things.

Art’s hands are shaking now, in anger and in caffeine overload. “What am I going to be, then? Are you done with me?” Paul shakes his head again. “Then, what? Am I your… I don’t know, your mistress?”

Paul bursts out laughing, then slaps his hand over his mouth, trying to respect Art’s anger. “Sorry,” he mutters.

Art’s ready to explode, but then he recalls what he said and laughs weakly. “No, that _was_ funny.”

They share awkward chuckle that fades quickly. Art looks at Paul’s hair, slightly wet with rain. It’s still raining outside. Good weather to be depressed together; they can’t get out of the house to avoid conversations.

“Okay, Artie, listen,” Paul puts down the mug, and walks over to Art, circling the kitchen counter. “You know that it’s either you or I who’ll take this step. We can’t do anything about us, and not having a steady companion is just as bad for the public eye, considering... well, everything. Don’t you think you’re going to eventually marry Linda?”

Art frowns. “So, what? You’re taking the noble step and fall on your sword so I’ll be saved from being the jerk who left the relationship first?”

“Trying not to sound self-important, but, yea.”

Art suppresses a smile to no avail. Paul lets out a tired laughter, then leans in to kiss Art. “I really am sorry.”

Art nods. “I know. And I know what you’re doing, too. I’m sorry. I just… can’t accept it. Of course I can’t.”

“Artie, I love you.”

“And I love you, Paul. I loved you first.” Art shakes his head. “I should’ve known I would be the one loving you last.”

Paul moves back, his face hurt. “That’s not fair.” His voice is so small, it doesn’t sound like Paul. He’s trembling. Angry. Scared. “That’s not fair,” he repeats. Has Art gone too far? What did he say? Paul puts his lips on Art’s. “That’s not fair.”

He covers Art’s face with kisses, all the while repeating the three words like a witch’s chant. He begins crying at the fourth chant, wetting Art’s skin where he moves. But he can’t stop the kisses, nor the protests, nor the crying. Art lets himself be drenched. He draws Paul in his embrace and they cry on each other’s shoulder, screaming, shaking, howling at every single thing that decided to be unfair. Paul’s gasping, breathless, choking on his own words on Art’s neck. Art groans and growls like a desperate wolf, clawing his way out to… somewhere. Somewhere, just out of this world.


	7. When Hurt is All We Find

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 24 hours made for tears.

The light outside is thickening into orange syrup. Both Paul and Art had slept a few times and cried throughout the time they’re awake. Paul’s pretty sure he’d fainted at least once. It’s insane. He’d never cried like that before. Artie, too, seems to be out of crying energy, he might die if he drops another tear.

“Maybe we should eat something,” Paul suggests, trying to lift his body off the couch. But Art’s arms keep him in place and he collapses back exhausted. Paul curls into Art again. “Artie, we have to leave the couch sometimes.”

“I know. I’m hungry, too.” Art frowns. “I wonder if there’s a way to not be hungry, ever.” He smiles when he feels Paul’s body shakes gently from a short laughter. “Yeah, I know. I’d been wanting impossible things lately.”

Paul crawls up to catch Art’s face and kisses him. He gently runs his fingers on Art’s wrist, eyebrows meeting and he flinches as if he is hurt by the contact. “It’s a tempting thought, Artie,” he murmurs softly, then bending over to kiss the place where his fingers were. “But I don’t want to die with you. I want to live with you.”

Art nods reluctantly, his throat’s closing once more. Paul kisses him by the tail of his eye, drying the tear before it rolls. Art clears his throat and smiles weakly, stroking Paul’s hair. “Alright. Let’s get something to eat, then.”

Art runs to get shower, pondering upon how all that he’d done since he woke up in the morning was eating a bagel, drinking coffee, crying, kissing Paul, and suggesting that they kill themselves and get it over with. He’s not sure he doesn’t wanna die, to tell the truth, but Paul was right. What he really wants is to live with Paul.

“Artie?” Paul’s voice bounces in the bathroom. Art can see a blurry shadow of his head popping through the door.

“I’m in the shower, Paul,” Art raises his voice over the sound of drizzling water.

Paul opens glass door and reaches to kiss Art before the tall man has time to ask questions, or to protest. Art makes delicious-chicken-wings-eating noises when he kisses, sometimes Paul wonders whether his lips actually taste like hot sauce and spicy marinades. It doesn’t, Paul’s checked. He pulls Art closer to him with his arms around Art’s neck, keeping their lips locked until they’re out of breath.

Art makes an unusually happy smile, the kind he made as a child, and presses his forehead against Paul’s before burying his nose on Paul’s neck. “Concerned?”

“Seems like good place to kill yourself,” Paul shrugs. He kisses Art’s neck, wherever he can reach. “Don’t die before I do, alright?”

“Oh, so _I_ get to suffer losing you? How very selfish of you Paul. How very typical.”

Paul doesn’t reply with his usual jest and instead relaxes his head on Art’s shoulder. “You know Artie, I’ll make you used to it enough, it won't make you feel anything anymore.”

Art’s heart skips a beat. He lets go of Paul, looking at him with question in his eyes, but not asking it. He lifts Paul’s chin up and bends over to kiss him back, sweetly. Paul pats Art’s chest and laughs. “Alright, I’m hungry, I can eat you. Let’s get this done fast.”

Art can argue that he can have the whole showering thing done so much faster without Paul’s intervention, but he can’t say that he minds. Art jokes that Paul’s fingers might be more effective to lift dead skin cells, like scrubs their mothers use. Paul makes a surprisingly mean comments against Art’s selection of toiletries, as if people can actually be mean about that. But Paul can. Because he’s made of seven demons.

Paul lets himself be taken, trying his best not to slip and break his neck in the shower room floor. He’d argued that it’s probably fair to know how it’s like to have this done on him without being high, and laughed throughout the progress. “I think it’s better when I’m high.”

“Shut up and I’ll let you get in my bedroom drawer,” Art replies, seething.

Paul laughs and listens to their laughter echoing in the bathroom, noting how insincere they sound. No, the jokes are funny, but they don’t want to laugh, do they? Paul wants to gauge his eyeballs out and stop everything—everything, except Art. He should be the only man this world was made for.

“Artie, I love you.” There he goes again. Paul’s so bewitching, he might as well be magic. He repeats it again, as if trying to make it truer. Art thrusts himself faster, each one rewarded with a breathy “I love you”. Art’s movements get more frantic, squeezing all words out of Paul, who never seems to run out. Art is crying. Paul is crying, too. They both had been crying since God knows when, but decided to pretend it’s the shower, it’s the rain; they’re not sad, they’re happy—for the time being, for what little time they have, they’re happy.

Paul sobs quietly when they’re both calmed down, steadying their breaths. “Artie,” he mumbles, “we need more soap.”

Art laughs but doesn’t let go. This is the way things should be. This is where they should be. A world of their own.

***

Paul and Art had driven to get a Chinese take-out. Art is oddly good with chopsticks. Paul, in his unconscious tired attempt to divert his mind, had been watching Art moving like ice sculptor with his chopsticks and chow mein. His fingers are so lean like venison steak. The strands of egg noodles seem to move in hypnotising dance and Art somehow looks like he’s orchestrating a marionette ballet.

Art plucks a piece of chicken and holds it to Paul, who blinks in surprise but obligingly lets Art feed him. Art smiles and brushes Paul’s cheek with the knuckle of his finger; just him being the sweetest person in the world he is, as usual. “Your food’s getting cold, Paul.”

“You know,” Paul says, returning to his box of fried rice, “we could’ve done it the way I wrote it.”

Art throws a quizzical look. “What do you mean?”

“Gas.” Paul munches on a pea. Pea is fine. Eddie hates pea. Eddie will cry. “We can die that way. Just turn on the gas, close the windows and go to sleep.” Who will find them? Linda, maybe. Why is Art with Linda? Why is Paul with Peggy?

Art puts down his chopsticks. “I thought you said you want to live with me.”

“I know. I know, Artie…” Paul drops his box and buries his face in his hands and begins to sob. “But how can I?”

The seasoned rice is scattered on Art’s carpet, leaving greasy spots. The tiny peas roll away freely and hide themselves under the couch, to the corners of Art’s living room. Art, in front of Paul, had dropped his own box, letting the even darker streaks muddying his cream-coloured carpet. They can’t even touch. They can’t even find a way to try to console each other. Not when their individual sadness is this overwhelming.

They’re no longer Simon & Garfunkel, aren’t they? No, they’re already reduced to two big blobs entirely made of tears, floating around in the universe not knowing how to stop dripping.


	8. When We're This Close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Paul's wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a happy one, I promise! Or, you know, relatively happy.

Paul’s hand-selected birthday gifts for him: a copy of Flash comic book, 13 songs dedicated to Art (containing the most charming wordings like: “how do you have a head like that”, “paranoid mama’s boy”, and “if wind gets too strong, you’ll be carried halfway to China”), Philadelphia Phillies red and white cap, a cigarette box, the last Buddy Holly studio album, a TS Eliot poetry book, a tin box that used to keep some of the best joints Art’s ever had, tickets to odd underground rave Paul somehow found out about, and a very modest professional pen.

What do people do to items given to them by a man who may or may not have broken up with them? Oh, it’s not a break-up, they’re not boyfriends and really, Paul said no, he doesn’t want to end things with Art, he just wants to get married. Completely different, of course.

Art feels like punching a wall, but he likes his hand. So instead, he returns to a sitting position and think about Paul Simon Museum he’d stashed in his closet back home. Does he burn them all? Along with his flat and himself? No, there’s a Buddy Holly record there. No, Art has to get on a plane and have it crashed if he really wants to get rid of anything Buddy Holly; _that’s_ the respect the man deserves. Anyway, he doesn’t want to get rid of Buddy Holly. Also, he doesn’t want to be in a plane crash.

Art sighs desperately. He’s not going to burn any of that, he knows. He walks up to the mirror and straightens up his pink tie. Art puts his fingertip on the soft pink tulip boutonniere, betting his life that the perfection of colour palette of this wedding owes itself to Paul. No one’s really sure what’s with Paul and pink, but it surely is an interesting signature colour.

Art tilts his head at his reflection but pondering upon ideas of Paul. Paul would make the worst bride. Actually, Paul is. Art’s pretty sure he’d been there for at least half of Paul’s wedding-related hysteria. Oh, God, imagine the riot he’d have been in had Paul been the one to _actually_ wear the dress…

Art laughs at the thought, shaking his head to himself. Well, it’s good that he managed to amuse himself today. What he’s about to do would be much more painful than a plane crash after all.

***

“Hey Eddie.” Art pushes his head through the ajar door, noticing Eddie’s nervous head bobbing around the dressing room. On the far end, sitting cross-legged on what looks like an expensive ottoman, is Paul, wearing a brand new, expensive suit and polished shoes, picking on his guitar. His father, scooping the last bit of roasted almonds, narrows his eyes a little at the instrument. Art decided not to get into that and turns his head back to the youngest of the Simons in the room. “Why are you more nervous than Paul?”

Eddie’s quick to turn his heels and march towards Art. Art thinks that Eddie finds safety in Art, finding him somehow more mellowed and of a more tolerable strangeness than his brother. “You know what I think it is? Hexes. Yeah. Paul doesn’t get nervous right? I think he sold his soul to demons to transfer all his nerves to me.”

Art laughs. He steels himself to look at Paul and jokes. “Paul, have mercy on him.”

Paul lifts his eyebrows with a smile and a nod. “Yeah, yeah. Get out, Eddie. You’re not making wedding days any easier with that amount of sweat.”

Eddie exhales rudely. “Why do you _always_ want me out? _Every time_ he comes, you always tell me to get out.” Then he grins and walks up to Paul, giving him a quick hug and a see-you-out-there. Eddie gives a salute to Art. “I’m blaming you for the widening gap between me and my brother.”

Art grins. “You’re free to have _my_ brothers in return, I told you.” Eddie makes a scrunching face and quickly trots towards the door.

Mr. Simon makes a toying smile at Paul. “You want me out, too?”

“Oh, Dad, I wished you didn’t have to make me say it.” The father and son chuckles. Paul drops his guitar on the couch and rises to hug his father. He says, in low voice, “Get yourself more almonds, Dad.”

Mr. Simon lets go with a smiley shaking head, gives Paul a firm squeeze and several fond pats before turning on his heels, offering a small nod to Art as he goes. Eddie waits to let the door open for him, then marches out behind the man, giving a flitting invitation for Art to join him in the bar if Paul’s getting annoying, to which Art laughs and replies, “Oh, I might as well join you now.”

When the door closes, the two of them stand in silence for a while, stunned at the situation they find themselves in. Paul looks at Art, who decided to analyse the wallpaper with inhuman intensity. “It’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride.”

Art laughs and shakes his head. Sure, it’s an awful day, but it’s not easy for Paul either. He’s gonna be a good friend today. There were times when that’s all they were, right? “Paul…”

“Artie, lock the door.”

Art clears his throat. “We’re not going to do any of that today,” he says, but obliging the request. His fingers are trembling. Art tries to stop it by grabbing on them with his other set of fingers, but they just make trembling fist. “You’re getting married today.”

“Oh, _that’s_ what I’m doing. Anyway,” Paul peers behind the couch and walks around it, finding his suitcase. He makes a mess on the carpeted floor, sloppily throwing clothes and papers. Art had tried his best getting him to immediately get clothes out of suitcase once they hit their hotel room, but Paul always argued that they were leaving shortly anyway and wound up with crumpled clothes. He was always good at ironing though, so Art doesn’t have much arguments to follow.

After a weird moment of not doing anything much, Art hears Paul grunts triumphantly. He reappears from behind the giant furniture and walks quickly towards Art. “I want you to have this.”

Paul’s holding a binder, the kind with clear pockets inside. It’s pink and it’s driving Art crazy. Still, he accepts the obviously newly-purchased stationery, and frowns. “What’s this?”

“Things from the past.” Art opens the binder to find several old paper announcements stuffed in the first clear pocket. Paul moves in closer, peering into the binder too. “See? It’s from the, uh, talent show where I first saw you. The flyer, the poster, the program, it’s all there. Then, uh, flip the page.” Art does as per instructed. Paul jumps on his heels. “That’s from the school production. My Mom still kept the script, apparently. I stole it.”

Art frowns, still unsure. “Uh, what’s this for?”

Paul looks up at Art, his face darting between surprised and hurt, then downright completely unreadable. “Just for the sake of old times. I want you to have them to remember me by.”

“So you can forget me?”

Paul shakes his head. “No, Artie, _so you remember me_. Don’t twist my words. I say things exactly as it is.” He hesitates, then pats Art on the arms. “I hope… I hope in a way, somehow, you can be happy about today.”

Art shrugs. “Are you?”

Paul considers the question, pursing his lips. Then he tilts his head and smirks. “You know, I was about to say no and begin to cry like a 12-year-old girl, which is pretty much you every day…” He shrugs. “But today feels more and more like a big expensive joke as it goes on.”

Art raises his eyebrows. “No one understands the joke, Paul.”

“Well, no, that’s the joke.” He shrugs again. Paul’s shoulders are so wide, he can lift the whole world with it. “Only you know that this is. I think that’s nice.”

Art smiles, this time genuinely. Paul replies the gesture, grateful.

“Okay, if you’re not gonna appreciate my gift.” Paul snatches the binder off Art’s hands and begins flipping through the pages, ignoring Art’s protests and denials of the accusation. But Paul flips and flips and flips and Art can do nothing but trying to catch flashes of what’s contained in each plastic pocket. Flyers from a baseball game their fathers took them to, some bus and train tickets that probably came from the time they went to-and-fro to production houses, a scribbled lyrics of their first song on Paul’s notebook (what a horrible handwriting), notes they shared in classrooms, things they stole from the time of American Bandstand, a receipt from that disgusting pub in England, some boarding passes, bills and invoices, and so, so many other things that Art didn’t expect Paul would hoard like an old hermit.

He stops near the end of the binder and pulls out a small brown paper envelope. Art frowns. “I don’t recognise that one.” His eyes widen in vague excitement. “You’re bringing joints to your wedding? Is it that one that you gave me for my 21st birthday?”

Paul bursts out laughing and drops the binder to the floor, letting it crash on their feet. Art chuckles, “Hey, I don’t know!”

“Alright, alright, no talk about drugs when my parents are around.” Paul tips the envelope and drops the contents to his open palm. Art stretches his neck to see, but Paul’s already crumpled his fingers to a fist. He looks up at Art, somehow looking almost nervous and almost crying. Very Paul. At least Paul nowadays.

Paul reaches for Art’s hand and holds it in his other fist, draws a deep breath and reveals the trinkets on his palm. Art chokes. “Paul…”

Paul exhales weakly. “I told you it’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride.”

“I— Wait, which one of us is the bride?”

Paul groans in irritation, then laughs, snatching Art’s hand to draw it closer to him. “If you’re done being crazy and all,” he grumbles. Art grins, nodding excitedly. Paul clears his throat and pushes a golden ring on Art’s finger. “Okay, I can’t marry you and that’s not my fault so _please_ don’t hold it against me. Maybe if we lived in period when people worshipped Zeus or something… And, and actually lived _there._ I don’t know if it happened in other places. Although, I think it’s quite a normal practice in Egypt…”

“Paul.”

“Right, sorry. Anyway.” With his thumb, Paul pats on the ring on Art’s finger, then drops his head to kiss Art on the knuckles. “I love you.”

Art smiles and takes the other ring to his hand. He lifts it up to his eyes, peering. “You have them engraved? What does it say?”

“Oh, mine and yours are different,” Paul quickly says.

Art frowns and his mouth opens in disbelief. “Paul, seriously? _That's_ what you had engraved?”

“What? Schlump & Schmuck makes a great band name! I would’ve preferred it.”

Art tries not to drop the ring when his body trembles with violent laughter. It’s apparently difficult to put on a ring when both parties involved are shaking like mechanical bull at the end of its shift. But when the rings are in their rightful place, they purse their lips to force the laughter to stop, nods at each other, and kiss.

Paul moves to kiss Art’s cheek and whispers, “Can we go halfsies on the ring bill?”

***

Art performs his duty as best man perfectly. Mostly because there’s not much to do. Except probably calming Eddie down. Peggy—oh _that’s_ Peggy, yeah, sure Art’s seen her, of course—wait, Paul's marrying _that_ Peggy? Seriously, Paul!—walks slowly in her white dress and the extravagant bouquet. Band playing, people aww-ing and ooh-ing. Art waits patiently for the lunch to come.

When they’re finally rounded to the table, Peggy stands up to thank all guests, noting that she can’t mention everyone by name, very formal. She goes on to recount the story on how she met Paul and all that. She’d begun with, “Paul is the strangest man I’d ever met,” and Art must give it to her that she got that one right. That _is_ how you should begin any story involving a Paul Simon. He listens absently, maintaining faux interested face throughout Peggy’s little laughter that peppers the whole speech.

Then Paul stands up. Art’s forgotten how many people would speak before the food can be eaten, and now he regrets it. But he laughs when Paul opens with, “I know that she said I’m the strangest man she’d ever met, but I must remind you that Peggy’s a drunk.

“But to her defence… because I have to defend her now that she’s my wife…” Paul grins widely whilst waiting for the laughter to subside, “she’s not the first to say that. Eddie, my brother, had, in many occasions, including twelve hundred times this morning, told it to my face that he thinks that I’m a witch. I lived with Eddie since I was a kid, you see, so since I was 4, I’d been raised to believe that I must light candles in circle every full moon. Peggy had agreed that I can still do that after we’re married, as long as the candles are vanilla-scented.”

Art follows the crowd’s laughter. Paul clears his throat again, then sweeps his eyes across the room, meeting Art’s briefly and smiles. “Anyway, Art… One of my best men, Artie, he’s my oldest friend. So that’s why we don’t have anything else for our something old.” Peggy mouths _that’s true,_ then laughs. Paul pats Peggy on the shoulder. “Art _would_ testify for Peggy’s remark about me being strange… and he has two brothers so that’s saying something. Anyway, my point is, Peggy _must_ be nuts for sticking with a strange one like me. Either that, or she really just loves me _that_ much. And that’s, uh, I guess that’s how I decided that I should marry her. I mean, it’s either her or Artie.” Paul grins at the rushing chuckles, stealing a glance at Art who replies the grin with a stifled giggle. Paul turns and raises his glass to Peggy: “So Peggy, thank you and I love you for keeping that from happening.”

Art raises his glass and smiles at the still-laughing Linda. Paul, several seats away, returns to his now-wife and Art feels a satisfaction from laughing at everyone, and is very grateful at how Paul’s speech had made it much less apparent that he’s laughing for a very different reason.

Peggy’s father followed Paul’s speech and Art couldn’t care less. He watches the man sobs into his napkin and he doesn’t stop grinning. It’s a funny day. It’s a happy day. Soon, Art gleefully dines on his pan-seared halibut and cream cheese mashed potatoes, plucking on Linda’s fricassee from time to time. Neither her nor anyone in the room notices the golden glint around his finger, and he can’t be happier about it. Good food— _free_ food—good friends, good songs, good weather; what’s there not to be happy about?

When the plates are cleared and people are preparing for dessert, Mr. Simon lifts his champagne flute and talks about Paul. Eddie and Art look at each other, noticing how he carefully sidesteps from all snide remarks against Paul’s career in music, and they smile like high school boys getting away from cheating in history class. Eddie speaks next, recounting embarrassing tales of their old-time glory. Paul tries to stab him with a fork before he can finish a very horrifying story that involved toothpaste and a screwdriver, but Eddie finishes with grace (and no new hole in his body).

Linda nudges Art on the rib, then gives him an encouraging nod. Art realises that he _did_ say yes to the speech… not like he made the agreement when he’s in full possession of his faculty. But surely there’s no retraction option available on the spot. Art clears his throat and stands up.

“Uh,” he stammers. He can’t see Paul now, he’d laugh. So Art looks at Eddie, who also makes Art wants to laugh, then switches to Peggy, who makes him sad. This’ll do. Art breathes out a laughter and clears his throat again. “Well, I honestly forgot if I’d planned any speech. Linda, did I?” Linda laughs and shakes her head. Art nods shyly. “But, anyway, um… Paul and I, we go way back. We had been singing together since we were kids, and we’re still singing together now.” Art focuses his eyes on the candles in the middle of the table. “Singing had been what I’d always liked to do. Paul… Paul told me that he thought of wanting to sing when he heard me singing, in fact. From myself, I’d started early with singing. But what made Paul realised that he can sing is actually his father. You see, Paul and I, we were in a school production and Paul told me that, once, when he was practising his part in his bedroom, his father came in and told him that he has a very nice voice.”

Art notices that Paul had looked at his father, then looked down. His father, in return, had cleared his throat shyly but kept his eyes fixed to the tablecloth. Art rises his eyebrows at Eddie, who grins and hides his face behind his fist. Mrs. Simon nudges at her son, angrily. Eddie keeps his face down like a child caught red-handed stealing a piece of cookie.

Art continues with a smile. “Paul told me that that was the first time anyone’s ever said that to him. I suppose nowadays he has thousands of people who’d say that to him, but…” Art finally looks at Paul, feeling the crowd around him slowly vanishing, and waits until Paul looks back and completely obliterates the rest of the world around them. He takes a deep breath. “I’d always known that I’d be the last one to say it to him, at the end of our lives.”

Art turns his head, noticing the room that had gone silent. He shrugs. “But now, there’s Peggy.”

He raises his glass to the snickering crowd then returns to his seat. Art lets his eyes wander across the table and finds Paul, smiling. Art reaches for another drink and closes his eyes as he sips. Paul’s right. This is a joke. Everything is just a big, expensive joke, and they’re the only two people in the world who knows the punch line.


	9. When It's Just So Long

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artie is moving on... and away.

“Still nothing?”

“Still nothing.” Paul shrugs. He throws his jacket on the table. Art looks behind him and raises his eyebrow in a mild judgment at the coat on the rack. It’s cold outside but Paul had, being who he is, worn more layers than common people would need for this kind of weather. If Art pokes around, he might get it from Peggy that Paul’s secretly building a portable fireplace in his hidden lair or something.

Art shoves a bottle of beer towards Paul. Its watery body lets it slide smoothly over the kitchen counter and Paul stops it with his palm. Art does the same with the grey ashtray when he notices that Paul's fishing for his cigarette in the wrongfully-placed jacket. A box. Then a slab of silvery lighter. Paul hasn't touched the beer.

“Well,” says Art, “you don’t have to hurry or anything, I guess. Writing comes naturally, don’t they?”

He replies with a snort. “What do you know?” That's mean and Paul knows it, but Art knows he's not going to get any apology. He'd stopped expecting a long time ago, too. Anyway, Paul's not in condition to register external irritation; he's already full of it from himself and against himself, especially nowadays since he suddenly stopped writing. Art _would_ blame his boring married life with Peggy, but that would be uncalled for and Art _would_ apologise, and he doesn't want to do that. So Art gets what he can to be satisfied: small silence filled with regret after coming up with a hurtful remark. Art silently forgives him.

Paul puts a stick of cigarette between his lips and lights it. It’s a nice picture; Paul sitting on a stool, hunching over cigarette and a lighter, sparks of flame glinting so close to his mouth and there he is, unafraid to get burnt. His drags are deep and he lets out the grey puff of smoke in desperately long sighs. Paul licks his lips before he grunts, “This is so frustrating. I’ve never been… Hey, why are you looking at me like that?” Art blinks and straightens his back, blushing. Paul grins and waves his cigarette at Art. “Careful, baby. I’m a married man now, and you’re on your way to be an actor.”

Art smiles shyly and takes a sip of his drink. He plays Paul's words over and over in his head as the stinging alcohol delicately slides down his throat, then slowly places the beer bottle down on the counter. Thoughtfully, and carefully, he says, “You know, you’ve never called me that before.”

Paul looks surprised. “What did I say?”

“You called me baby, remember?” Art shakes his head and laughs. Paul and his detachments from reality. "That was, like, two seconds ago."

Paul takes another drag whilst mentally muttering every word that had recently come out of his mouth. When it's come back to him, smile slowly blooms on his face, then he laughs. “Yeah, that’s new. And a proof of my writer’s block, by the way. What a poor choice for a pet name.”

“Really? I kinda like it.” Art had reached out for his share of cigarette. Paul snaps the box on the counter and offers it across the counter. Art picks one and twirls it between his fingers, not really sure whether to light it.

Paul shakes his head. “No, you’re not baby material. I think you need more mature term of endearment. Like… dear.”

“Dear.”

“The animal. You have the aura.”

Art laughs loudly, bumping his head on the counter. He can hear Paul snickering on the other end and suddenly the day feels so comfortable, he could sleep.

Art had flown back to New York to record what they could. He supposed it’s a good idea to not let Paul be idle for very long; he’s insane enough already without additional stress of not doing anything. And perhaps out of the same idleness, Paul had put way too much energy into this one song. But they’d finished even that, and now Paul is dissolving into madness once more. He can’t write, he said. He’d need more time to come up with new album.

Art doesn’t mind. He’d taken an enterprise of his own this time. He realised that he’d taken way too much time not doing much while waiting for Paul to come up with songs, all these years. So when an opportunity to pursue a side career arose, Art took the chance. Paul doesn’t seem to be very happy about it, but he can’t say much about the topic. Besides, Art needs time away from Paul. Probably. Anyway, it’s for the best. How was he expected to stick around and see his best friend—that’s the official title, of course—go home to his wonderful wife while he…? Well, he has Linda. No, no, he’s not disappointed. Surely, he’s not.

Art taps on the counter, asking for a lighter, finally deciding to smoke anyway. The cracking sound of opening lighter and the starting of fire had long fascinated Paul, he wound up including it in one of their songs. It bothers Art, that song. Doesn't it sound like something that Paul had been trying to say but is too coward to actually say it out loud, right to his face? Isn't that how Paul really feels? That song. It haunts Art every time they face bumps on their relationship. But perhaps he is bearing way too much prejudice against Paul, his songs, and his feelings for Art. Perhaps. But who can blame him? Paul's married to Peggy, for God's sake.

Art draws a deep breath and exhales. He used to liken smokers to dragons, with fire in their mouths and smoke coming out of them. Or it feels like they have engines inside them, and what comes out is simply exhaustion; just like old cars. It makes working feels more real. Art likes the idea of being able to see how much he’d put his body through, observing the cost of capitalism.

He props his chin on the edge of his palm and thinks. After a while, eventually, Art comes up with a slowly-uttered question. “Paul, can I make a request?”

Paul lifts his eyebrows, then knits them into a confused knot in the middle of his forehead. “Request?”

“For a song. I’ve never made request, haven’t I? Thought it’s about time.”

"You did with Richard Cory."

"That was a suggestion."

"Right..." Paul frowns and takes another drag, but nods rapidly. He tips the cigarette and lets the ash fall and die in the ashtray. "Sure. What do you want?"

Art watches the clock above Paul’s head, ticking nervously. It’s odd, how Art feels so unlike the clock now that he’d put some distance from Paul. It feels like he’s… Art again. Art that he knew was once him, before Paul and his insane drive came to push him over the edge. Laidback, content, peaceful, calm. Paul is a chaotic energy. Always had been. _Sure, what do you want?_ You. Always you. Forever. Art looks at Paul and takes his time in the observation. Why Paul? What is it about Paul?

Because Paul wants him, that's why. Paul repeats those three words over and over again— _I want you_ —that Art believes that he wants that, too: to be wanted. By Paul. And Paul always walks the talks, doesn't he? He shows Art that every day, too, that he does want Art. It's not Paul's fault. Art processed his words, his actions, wrongly. It's just very Art to romanticise everything, even the most innocent sort of friendship, the dullest sort of partnership.

But Paul changed. The way he wants Art has changed. He said it himself. And after changes upon changes, they're more or less the same.

"What's that?" Paul chirps, breaking Art's reverie. Art blinks in confusion. Paul waves his cigarette, takes a drag, blows the smoke, and says, "You just said something. After changes, something? What was that?"

"Oh." Art sits up straighter, his face reddening. "I'm sorry. Nothing. I was thinking to myself. I... I apparently said it out loud. That wasn't for you, sorry."

"But that could be something," Paul replied. He props his chin on the edge of his palm. "After changes upon changes, we are more or less the same. Is that what you said?" Art shrugs, but nods. Paul's eyes sparkle energetically. "That's good. We can use that. Maybe I'll add a couple more lines, we can mix that into that last song we're working on..."

"Whoa, no." Art shakes his head, laughing. "Paul, for heaven's sake, no. I'm pulling a plug on that project. We're done. It's good. It's _really_ good. Do _not_ tweak it any more. We have been working on it for, like, a hundred hours, and I'm pretty sure I'm not exaggerating it. Ask Roy. Or actually, don't, because I think Roy will throw plates at you if you mention the title of that song _one more time._ "

Paul pouts. "Fine. But the next time we sing it, we're gonna add that line." Art sighs in relief. Paul returns to his smoke, then lifts his eyebrow to regard Art. "What did you want to ask me to do? You have a request?"

He nods, then goes quiet for a little while, dragging and exhaling on his cigarette. Art catches Paul's gaze as he follows the movement of the smoke. “I want you to write about Frank Lloyd Wright,” says Art, at length. Burning ashes had dropped freely on his kitchen counter. Art doesn’t try to dust it off.

Paul comes with new question. “Who’s Frank Lloyd Wright?”

“An architect,” is the reply.

“Oh." Frown's still intact. "Your friend from Columbia?”

Art shakes his head. “No, no. He’s not someone I _personally_ know…”

“Linda’s?”

“No, Paul. He’s just an architect, okay? He built the, uh, Fallingwater… Wait, you’d know this one. The Guggenheim.”

“The museum?”

Art sighs in fading patience. “Yes, Paul, the museum.”

Paul tends to his cigarette again, forehead scrunched with labyrinthine patterns. His eyes are squinting, directed far-off, deep in thoughts. He lets out a puff of smoke slowly, dragging. Human chimney, he calls them. Paul’s reply comes in an equally slow pace. “Well, Artie, I don’t know him…”

Art quickly answers. “Well, if you can’t…”

“No, no, I’ll do it.” Paul shakes his head. He takes the last drag off his cigarette and puts it out on the ashtray. He briefly watches as the ember dies under the pressure, then looks up at Artie with confused face. “I’ll do it. You’re right, you’ve never made a request. Let’s do it, then. I need to start somewhere anyway. It’s nice to have, uh, challenging topic, I guess. Yeah, let’s do it. Thanks.”

Art smiles. “You look flustered.”

“That’s because I am,” he admits with a somewhat nervous laughter, nodding. “This came out of nowhere. But, yeah, it’s fine. It’s nice. Okay, let me think it through. I, uh, I probably should start something soon, then. Now, maybe. I…”

“Paul, sit down. You _literally_ just came.”

“Yeah, no, that’s one cigarette ago.”

“Paul, you’re being weird.”

“Ha! Ha, wouldn’t that be normal?” He shakes his head, already leaving his stool. “No, no, Artie… I… I have to go. Sorry. Bye.”

Art frowns at the sight of rushing Paul, tiptoeing to get his coat. He grunts and stands up, “Paul, your jacket,” he says, snatching the article off the counter and walks up to Paul.

“Right, right. Sorry. I’m a scatterbrain these days…”

Art grabs Paul’s wrist when he reaches out for his jacket. For a while, Paul freezes and looks at the joining hands with horrified face. Then he stammers and begins to walk backwards, avoiding Art’s face as if he’d just run into a bear. He mutters something about “crocodiles” and “hungry”, then fumbles on the doorknob before somehow slipping out of Art’s grip and flat.

It’d be long until Art sees Paul again.


	10. When Paul Lives Underwater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art's gone too long and Paul's going mad.

Paul broke down. People had seen it coming, but it’s a surprise that it took _this_ long until it happened. So, in the summer of 1969, Paul packs his bags and sends himself away to Los Angeles. Along with Peggy and his brother, after the said brother reminded him that he _is_ married. Peggy, in turn, had requested Eddie’s presence in case Paul goes mental and it’s beyond Peggy’s capacity. Eddie groaned and said, “You know you’re there to see Garfunkel, right? _He_ can handle Paul. Why does it have to be me _again_?”, but even so, agreed to come because: 1) He’d love to spend time in Los Angeles, 2) After years of their acquaintance, it seems rather apparent that Garfunkel _can’t_ handle Paul. Paul had sulked over that remark and Eddie had to lovingly explain with, “Well, you know he only holds on because he’s a nice kid and he loves you, but not the handling part, no. That would be like expecting a squirrel to hold up a falling tree.”

Paul grinned at the sentiment. “A squirrel. That’s perfect.”

Art was there to welcome the arrival of The Simons and they spend the night drinking, with both Paul and Eddie synchronised-screaming at bushes when the evening winded down. Art, having to work the next morning, had been sensible and instead, he joins Peggy in simply laughing at them over several glasses of wine. Who sneaked the vodka? Paul, of course. Eddie’s just there to buy the, eh, rest of the liquor store.

The two of them eventually have to carry the drunk Simons, who jumped into the pool with their shirts on, to the closest couch, dripping and might die from hypothermia had it not been summer and Los Angeles. Their jeans make them so much more difficult to carry and Peggy stumbles on her feet and bumps Paul onto the floor plant more than one time. The floor, the carpet, and the couch are drenched by the time Peggy and Art managed the task, breathing heavily and sweating. Art is pondering upon whether it’s a good idea to purchase a painting of the fallen St. Eddie and his brother Demon Paul, and realised that he might’ve been more drunk than he intended to be.

Peggy sighs as she tries to towel-dry her husband, who keeps on pushing her face in his sleep. Art smiles when she throws her hands in the air, giving up. “How’ve you two been?”

“Oh, you know.” Peggy makes a tense smile. Whatever vaguely nice things she’d say, Art would know that they’re not doing very well right now.

“Paul giving you a hard time?” he delicately guessed.

Peggy laughs and nods. After a short moment, she frowns. “Well, _he’s_ having a hard time. I’m trying to have a breeze, but it’s difficult when he’s being so miserable all the time.”

Art widens his eyes and claps way too enthusiastically. “Exactly! _Exactly!_ That’s what I’d been saying all these years! I mean, we’re doing very well, but he’s just… so… him! Kind of a buzzkill when you’re on top of the world.” He makes a thoughtful frown before adding, “And you two _just_ got married, so I suppose this is a pretty fair comparison for the top of the world part.”

Peggy folds her arms, staring blankly at Paul, who’s snoring and swatting at Eddie’s dangling fingers. “Yeah... But, you know, it’s a little scary. I mean, not us, but... Lately... Lately, Paul had been crying, you know?” She looks up and nods at Art’s surprised face, then sighs exhaustedly. “I heard him crying, a lot. He always comes home late, I don’t know why. Then he’d go home, get into the shower and cry... for a very long time. I don’t know if I dare probing him. I probably should, but…” She raises her gaze to meet Art on the eyes. “You don’t happen to know if there’s any... you know... do you?” 

Peggy gives him a searching look. For a while, Art's not quite sure what her query was about, but then it hit him. He feels the heat creeps up and he begs his face not to flush. That's definitely not going to happen. His face doesn't like him. Art laughs nervously. “What, Paul? No, Paul’s not the type…” He feels his eyes drifting towards the floor under Peggy’s shoes. No, Paul never cheats. Not with _girls._ Or, for that matter, with guys; only with Art. No, that’s not a good story to tell.

“Art?”

Art blinks in surprise. “Huh? Sorry, I drifted away there. No, no, Paul’s too focused on music to juggle two girls. Do you have anything that gets you to be worried about affairs?”

Peggy bites her lip and shakes her head hesitantly. “Well, no, not exactly. Actually, not at all. That’s the odd part, don’t you think?”

Art shakes his head in return. “No, that’s not odd. That’s just… very Paul. Half the time, he’s more interested in music than in people. The difference between being his girlfriend and his wife is, I suppose, you now live with him full time, so you have to deal with that part of his time when he’s downright alien. Eddie would tell you.”

Peggy thinks of it for a while, then she smiles at Art. “Yeah, that makes sense. Thanks, Artie, that’s comforting. You know him so well.”

“Hey, I let my windows unlocked year-round for that guy, I ought to know a thing or two.” Art shrugs and smiles back at Peggy, patting her on the arm warmly. “Don’t worry. I think it’s just extra hard for him because of this whole writer’s block thing.”

Peggy frowns with a grin. “And with you leaving, too. He spent his time stressing out about not having you around, nearly tearing both studio and our house in his insane rampages. If he guilts you into coming back, oh, please do feel guilty and come back because I’m going insane,” she adds jokingly. Art pities her a bit after noticing a hint of seriousness in her tone.

It makes Art laugh a little. Poor Peggy. She doesn't know the hacks yet. “I know, I know. The filming ran much longer than we thought. But it’s only some more weeks, then I’m done. I’ll come to your rescue.”

Peggy gives Art a little hug then she disappears into her room to retire. When he looks at his watch, it's somehow even later than he thought it is. Art sighs and looks at The Simons on the sofas. The Simons. They sure know how to party. With dragging feet, Art searches into the nearest guestroom, where they said Eddie would stay, and pulls the only blanket off the bed. Art covers mumbling Eddie with the black sheet, then takes off his jacket and places it gently over Paul.

Art draws a slow, long breath and watches Paul carefully, as if he’s a specimen under a microscope. He can’t see anything different on Paul from the day he was married, or from the day before, or from any other day, really. That ring encircling his finger, is it Peggy's, or Art's? Art crouches by Paul’s side, touches the ring with extra care, and sighs. He cups Paul’s face and feels a little special when the boy doesn’t immediately smack his hand away. He lifts his gaze upwards, then to the side, searching for Peggy, or for Eddie’s sobriety. Finding none, he presses his lips on Paul’s forehead.

He could taste the faint chlorine from the unwiped pool water, mixed with Paul’s sweat. Paul’s skin is smooth as ever, and warm. He’s missed this. He misses Paul so much, it feels surreal to be this close to him. Art’s heart seems to have exploded in his chest because when he closes his eyes, he sees a supernova; a star, bursting, blinding, dying and igniting the whole universe; then a new one was born. He finds that that's what he'd always felt about Paul; every moment they spend together is so powerful that it kills and gives birth to their feelings, over and over again. Art falls in love with Paul every day. Every day, his feelings are renewed, and every time he looks at Paul, it's like the first time he'd ever found love. New, fresh, exciting. And it repeats. How much can he bear? How much more?

He will contain every supernova if it means he gets to feel it for Paul.

He feels a drop of tear rolls out of his eye and Art withdraws himself. He looks around, still wary. The house is dreadfully silent that Art feels a sneaky suspicion that someone is just _that_ stealthy. Who's to say that Peggy's not a ninja? Or anyone who's interested in them, for that matter? Did anyone take a photograph of that? Can he have one copy?

“Artie.”

Art has to hold himself back from screaming. The temperature of his body, initially feverish, drastically collapsed and Art feels his fists trembling before he forces himself to relax. Paul, his eyes sleepy and clouded, smiles adoringly and reaches out to stroke Art’s face with his rough fingers. “You shouldn’t have stopped.”

Art’s heart collapsed into his stomach and he wished he’s sitting on top of a quicksand. “You weren’t sleeping?”

“I was. I woke up. Or don't you know that people can do that? Yeah, especially when someone disturbs them in their sleep.” Paul clamps his eyelids, squeezing hard, as if trying to repel a headache. When he opens them back, they're watery. The gaze no longer talks of dreams, but they are searching—into Art’s eyes.

Art closed them to answer.

Paul. Paul’s mouth feeds Art with overwhelming taste of alcohol. Art searches for more and he finds the sweetness of grenadine juice under Paul’s tongue, a crunch of salt between his teeth, the stickiness of syrup on the roof of his mouth. It’s like a treasure hunt and he loves every second and every location. He wants to venture more of this world. He wants to live in it.

Art soon noticed how wet his face is, then he heard Paul’s sobbing. It is his tears that has flooded their kisses, and now Paul has drawn his face away to bury it behind his wrists. His teeth—his perfect teeth—Art’s been there, just recently—are exposed for a showcase of anguish. Art puts his hand on Paul’s shoulder, shaking him a little. “Paul, what’s wrong?”

But Paul doesn’t reply. He shakes his head and, between his attempt to silence the noise, his sobbing got wilder to the point of hiccups. Art pulls Paul, almost violently, and forces him into a hug. He drips on Art’s chest and, as usual, Art persists in his stance. It’s odd, this time, how Art isn’t moved to join Paul in this circus of sadness. Art can feel the familiar hurting in his chest, but he feels as if he is detached from his body. It's as if his spirit had run away because breaking down with Paul, again, would’ve broken him beyond repair.

Still, Art tilts his head to reach Paul’s temple with his lips. And soon it calms Paul, little by little. His sobs begin to subside, his crying follows. The only thing left is the hiccups. Which is cute, so Art smiles.

Paul releases himself from Art, then wipes all liquids from his face. Art reaches for a handkerchief in his jacket pocket. He hands it to Paul and gets up to fetch some water for the hiccup. He grins at Paul, offering the glass, which is quickly grabbed and downed, “You know, it would’ve been funny to have a song for the hiccups. You do that in the recording, people would love it. You have a cute hiccupping sound.”

Paul simply looks at Art from the top of the glass, his own eyes look like a bowl of water. Art feels guilty, for some reason. He leans on the couch and watches as Paul slowly places the glass on the table, slightly beyond his reach so he wobbles and Art has to hold him by the arm. The small knock on the table made Eddie stir and they tensed in their positions, but Eddie quickly drifts back to deep slumber.

Paul puts down his feet on the carpet and he stands up, then walks towards the light switches and turns them all off before moving on to lock the doors. Art looks at Paul, who’s only visible from the faint light that streams through the window where he is standing near. Somehow, he looks like he just came straight out of the cover of their Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme album. Art forces a smile, but even then he knows that something's not quite right. “Paul, you know I have to go home, right?”

“I know.” He nods. “Take me with you.”

Art suppresses his impulses and forces a, “You know it’s not a take-your-daughter-to-work day tomorrow.”

Paul shakes his head slowly, never taking his eyes away from Art. He's so sincere, it hurt. “Please, Artie.”

Art has to tear his eyes off and take a step back. He shakes his head bitterly. “Don’t.”

“Artie…”

“Don’t do that,” Art moves further away until he feels the end of kitchen counter bumps on the lowest of his spine. He tears up, but not out of the pain on his back. “You can’t do that. That’s not fair. You can’t just… just guilt me into… doing… whatever you want me to do. No. That’s not how it works, Paul.”

Paul’s eyes spark in the night. He takes one step forward that feels, for Art, like a giant leap, finally feeling other things that are not despair. No, this isn’t far from it—it's _still_ it, only… hotter, angrier. Paul explodes with the lowest volume possible, seething dangerously that Art couldn't help but tremble. “Do what _I_ want? I thought it’s what you want, too, Artie, or is that no longer…” He chokes on his own words. Paul stops and teeters, as if someone had just pushed him in the schoolyard. Tears return to his eyes and he trembles when he stumbles on sentences that follows. “Or am I…? Or do you no longer…?”

Then he breaks down crying again.

And Art doesn't even think to resist. He rushes forwards and stumbles himself back into Paul. This time, he couldn’t help himself. He has to be there for Paul—every part of him, body and soul, ready to be broken.


	11. When Things Aren't Said

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Questions are asked but no one's answering them.

> _Peggy, this is Art. Don’t worry, Paul’s with me. He was crying again last night and asked to come with me, so… I hope you don’t mind, I’m not really sure if I should let him just jump back to the pool. I should’ve woken you up, I’m sorry. I’ll take him back as soon as possible. Or you can drop by at my work, whatever suits you. I’ll let the crew know. Also, good coffee? Try the one by the French restaurant I showed you yesterday. So, uh, say good luck getting over hangover to Eddie, and I’ll see you later._

Art did that. He lied. He isn’t usually very good at it, but that one message was so convincing, Art barely recognised himself. A pit of guilt wells in his stomach and Art lets it settle because it feels unfair to brush it away. He's probably punishing himself by thinking of Peggy. The truth is, Art couldn’t care less of what she’s feeling.

What he cares about is Paul, who’s probably making a punchbag out of himself for making decision he couldn’t live with. Paul just does things, doesn't he? He doesn't stop to think of what it’d do to himself, what it’d do to Art… Probably Art wants to punish him too, for placing this kind of hell in his life. This is probably it. This is probably why he let himself be taken away to Mexico, to Los Angeles, away, doing his own thing, driving Paul mad of his absence and his uncalled-for independence.

Is this what their relationship is turning into? A duel?

“Artie?” Paul pokes his head out of the bedroom door. His hand grips on the side of the wooden apparatus, making him look like a little boy in movies, calling for his father. “Are you alright? You’ve been a while.”

He shrugs. This is Paul’s manoeuvre. How did it come to Art? Art sighs to maintain patience in his tone. “I was making a phone call, Paul.”

“I know,” he nods quickly. “Just… Are you coming back in?”

Art makes an attempt to smile. “Yeah, this is _my_ place. I’m not gonna sleep on the couch.”

Paul doesn't reply the laughter. He hasn’t been doing that since he woke up. Art doesn't want to admit that he’s worried, but he couldn’t help but letting his smile falter. Something’s wrong with Paul. He can’t be looking at Art with those eyes. He doesn’t plead. He should be looking at Art as if he’s beneath him—that’s the Paul he knows; juggling between condescension and pure admiration. This is not Paul.

“I want you to come in.”

Art doesn't care anymore. This could be Paul, or Paul impersonator (Eddie is a pretty possible contender), or a demon in shape of Paul, he doesn't care. He drops everything in his hands—from the sound of it, seems like a drinking glass and a pen—and walks in large strides towards Paul, his movements almost a trial to cut dimension to reach the man behind the door. Art sprawls his arms and the way he pulls Paul into a kiss is far from affectionate. Paul whimpers at the collision but quickly welcomes the crash. His fingers roams all over Art’s chest and his grips tighten when Art pulls him violently close.

Art never moves this fast before, nor is he ever this forceful. His fingers are swift and unapologetic when he unbuttons Paul’s shirt, sliding it off his body before nestling his hand on the crane of Paul’s neck. He enjoys the vibration Paul’s moans make in his mouth. It sends shivers and excitements down his back.

Art lets go of Paul’s lips, briefly, to breathe, and steals a glance towards the floor. He pushes his face again, not wasting time. “Is that my shirt?”

Paul nods and waits until they broke apart again. “Yeah, so we can trample on it, no worries.” He laughs.

He laughs. This is Paul again. The real one. He pulls Paul back, almost crushing the man in his arms. From a place he couldn’t recognise, Art somehow summoned enough strength to lift Paul off the floor. He feels Paul’s arms snake for support towards the back of his shoulders, his legs wrapped around Art’s waist. A foreign groan rumbles in his throat—a sound so feral, Art couldn’t recognise it as his own. Paul, hovering, moans and whimpers and whines while they wobble towards the bed.

Art briefly hated himself for wearing a vest, but he gets himself undressed within seconds. His breath is ragged and he feels so stupid, losing all ability to remember a single word. Art grabs Paul by the hips, rolls his thumbs on the abdomen and the rest of his fingers on the rear. He presses himself closer, kissing Paul deeply…

Then, he hesitated.

He looks down then opens his mouth to make no sound. He probably looks like a dead fish. “Um, Paul,” Paul frowns at the interruption, which makes Art more nervous, “is this… is this the right sequence?”

“The right se…” Paul pushes his hand against his mouth, smothering a hysterical laughter. Art chuckles nervously and shyly scratches his head. “Oh, Artie! What the actual fuck?”

“Alri-ight, don’t make fun of me, I’m just being considerate. Hey, the last time we did it, we did it that way because you said you wanna know how it’s like _without_ joints. How should I know if… you know, we do what and where!”

Paul has flipped to laugh safely under the pillow, partially trying to kill himself from laughing at Art—a death surely worth the fun. “Artie, that’s… Hold on, I need to make straight face for this so it sounds sincere. Ha! Alright. Artie, that’s _very_ sweet, but for fuck’s sake, who stop at the gate when the access is granted? Oh, wait, it’s worse than that. Let me think… Okay, if a chicken’s already coated and the oil’s already heated, the chef _doesn’t_ ask the chicken who’s gonna get cooked. Or, if a lamb…”

“I get the point, Paul. Thanks for explaining it so eloquently.”

“Anytime, dear,” Paul grins and kisses Art sweetly on the lips.

Art shakes his head and chuckles softly. “Thanks for ruining that.” Then, after a while, Art insists. “No, but, seriously, did you… You know, I never did get a feedback. Did you like it? I mean, you said it’s better when you’re high, so I just assumed…”

Paul tilts his head, considering. “You know, as far as sensations go, it was alright.”

“Alright,” Art repeated.

Paul laughs. “Alright, let’s not get you worked up over one word. It was good.” Paul shrugs. Art smiles to himself. Now _this_ feels like them again. “I just wasn’t sure if that’s something I… I don’t know. I’m emotionally comfortable with.”

“Huh.” Art frowns, then nods slowly. “Emotionally comfortable. Okay. But you’re okay with putting it in me?”

“Oh, yeah, that was good.” Paul stops, hesitating. “Wait, is that selfish?”

“Yeah, whatever empathy drugs Peggy is giving you, keep on eating them, it’s doing your sensibility a world of good.” Art grins. He strokes Paul’s face and gives him a tender smile. “Then, you do it. I like it, you like it, we’re good.”

Paul sits up, kissing Art’s shoulder softly. His tiny eyelashes brush on Art’s skin, gently tickling him. When he speaks, his voice is as soft as the touches of those fluttering eyelashes. “No, no, you do it if you want. I want you to.”

Paul, of course, does exactly the contrary and lowers himself into Art.

***

“You know, that is so Libra of you.”

Paul laughs. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” Art shrugs, trying to seem as careless as possible. “Saying you’re leaving but keep on coming back, that’s all.” He looks at Paul, who stares at him with a half-amused, half-irritated face, and decides to pile on the accusation. “Also, making long deliberation on what you need to do and then choosing the right thing to do then regretting it, going all depressed on everything because you’re obsessed with getting them _all_ right, saying you’ll marry another woman but you don’t want to end things with me so you wind up with massive headache, freaked out over everything but also way too cool for normalcy on the outside so no one can help you _because_ you don’t want to bother people with your heavy load, wanting to please people and wind up not pleasing anyone and least of all yourself, trying to do everything and ended up not doing any, and all those mood swings like pregnant woman…”

“Whoa, okay, quite the wordsmith, you are,” Paul giggles. “Pregnant woman. God, Garfunkel, you’re mean.”

Art grins. “I’m not mean, I’m a Scorpio.”

“So I assume you’re a venomous dick?”

Art laughs. Paul keeps his lips pursed, making adorable giggling noises he sometimes made on stage when Art missed on a tempo or blurted a wrong word. He gets up and leaves the bed for a glass of water on the far end of the room. Art watches the way his shoulders flex and hunch as he strides away. Paul’s arms are so big, he could either punch Art or embrace him and it would make equally great impact. “Paul, why did you cry?”

Paul turns around and raises his eyebrows. Art pushes himself back to the pillows, stares at the ceilings, not wanting to face Paul with neither the question nor the answer. Paul, anyway, doesn't answer as he returns with a glass half-full for Art and instead announces, “I made a song for you.”

Art smiles. “The Frank Lloyd Wright one?”

“What? Oh, yeah, that, too. But, no, I wasn’t talking about that one. Hey, I’ll send you that one soon. Or, I don’t know, we can wait until you’re back. You _are_ going back, right?”

“Yes, Paul, I’m going back.”

Paul nods with an odd look on his face that quickly disappears, as if he's trying to destroy the evidence of a certain feeling or thought that ran through his head in a brief, weak moment. Art offers a smile and shakes his head in amusement. Paul wants him back. He still wants Art. Of course he does. Art props himself up and takes Paul’s hand, holding it between his palms and kisses it. “Okay, what did you write?”

“A song.”

“I figured. What about?”

Paul has opened his mouth to begin but he suddenly falters. His eyes widen and forecast another upcoming rainstorm. Art braces himself for the impact, the throbbing in his chest stinging like a warning. “Paul.” Art quickly pulls Paul to his side, hugging him, regretting his gangling arms that don't seem to be enough to protect the crying Paul. Art kisses the top of his head, brushing his cheek on the fine dark hair. He whispers, “Paul, I don’t understand.”

“Paul,” Art tried again, realising how much he sounded like his own mother when he was a child and crying over broken toys or stolen food. “Paul, let me in. I want to help you. Tell me something.”

“Artie, I love you.” Paul sobs. “Artie, I love you so much.” He tightens the embrace, pressing their bodies as close as possible. The gesture wasn't made to hold Art or to get closer, but so he could borrow Art's support in pushing down his lurking darkness with it. He pushes away. Paul breaths heavily, trying to steady himself. He looks at Art with much more tranquillity in his eyes, it seems out of place. “I’m sorry.”

Art frowns and shakes his head. “No, it’s fine. I just don’t understand why you cry. Peggy said…”

Paul nods, cutting him off. “I know. I know what Peggy would say. It’s not important. I want you to hear this song. I made it for you. Oh, you don’t happen to have guitar, do you? Oh, well.” Paul flops back on the bed, defeated. “I suppose I can wait.”

“Well, we _can_ do that in a studio somewhere here. Aren’t we doing that anyway? And you _do_ have a guitar back in the place you’re renting…”

“I know, I know. I’m just being a baby. Sorry. Never mind. I’ll perfect it. It’s a song for you, it _has_ to.”

Art smiles. “Aren’t all the songs for me?”

Paul laughs. “Yeah. And aren’t they _all_ perfect?”

“Hey, my _singing_ made them perfect.”

“Nah, narcissism doesn’t go with you, Garfunkel. Hey, stick with your prompt. You’re the angel, I’m the screw-up. Anyway.” Paul kisses Art and climbs to his lap, his hands resting on Art’s shoulders. There’s that rare smile on his lips, so soft it could vanish into thin air when wind blows. Art traces the line it makes on Paul’s face with his thumb, careful not to disturb the delicate arch on that mouth.

Paul dips his fingers inside Art’s mouth and the latter suckled on it. Paul removes them and replaces it with his tongue. Art opens his eyes when he feels a moaning grunt vibrating on his mouth and finds Paul’s face contorting slightly. “Paul?” he whispers, but Paul lifts an eyebrow and grins and shushes him.

Art gasps when Paul lowers himself. His eyes are glinting with mischief and he crooks a smile. “I always do what I said I’ll do, Artie.” He plants another kiss and snakes his arms around Art’s neck. “Please come home soon.”

Art tries to register whether the first sentence was meant to be an assertion or a threat. But with the first rocking on the bed, Art’s lost his whole mental faculty and surrendered to the night.


	12. When the Game is Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul wants an out.

It doesn’t make sense how one person can love another that much. Paul thinks so about his feelings for Artie. It seems like his feelings are too big to contain in just one category, it leaks to other boxes and get mixed up with other feelings. Irritation, fear, admiration, idolation, obsession, indignation. He’s a muse, he’s a nightmare, he’s a friend, a complete asshole, a darling idiot, a tiny god, an absolute angel. The mixture doesn’t make sense, either. Paul would try to keep them in one place, but what’s the point of exploding? Isn’t it better to feel everything all at once rather than not feeling anything at all? If it’s Art, it surely is.

Artie. He would cut his veins open for Artie. But there’s not much to it. Death, even the sweetest kind, doesn’t matter. They ultimately want to live together. He’s the one who spelled out that idea and it’s still true. And it’s still true that it feels like dying every day.

Why Peggy? Because Peggy would never have any idea. It’s not love that he feels for her—no, not the kind that he felt for Kathy, and definitely not the one he feels for Artie. She’s nice. She’s kind. Paul likes her enough. It’s just not love.

Artie came home yesterday. He’d spend the night with Linda, he said, so Paul didn’t expect to see him until today. He prepares himself through the night. He talks with Peggy, short chats that last for hours. Movies. Pasta and wine. Peggy speculates that he’s compensating for the next few days that he’d be away in the studio, and Paul laughs but agreeing. Peggy just smiles and tells him all her pampering-night plans and Paul is very attentive. He spends the rest of the night with her, smelling every single scented candles and essential oils, experimenting on bowls before drawing a winner. She is happy. He is happy.

Because Art is coming.

***

“Art. Artie, come here.” Roy, their always-red-faced producer, waves his hand at Art, who’s walking through the door. He’s beaming and gleeful, which isn’t very weird but quite odd to see at the side of ever-miserable Paul. It's strange enough that their physical bodies are opposite of one another, but they have to add contradicting expressions too every time. Angry Paul, smiley Art. Giggling Paul, pouty Artie. They're like cartoon characters. "It's good to see you again, finally!"

Art steps into the room with a usual hunched back, hands snuck in his pockets, and an anxious smile. He sends one to Paul, who replies with a raising of the eyebrows. Roy’s stopped and replayed the demo they’re listening to, and soon the sound of the softly-picked guitar fills the room. Art tilts his head, as if he can see the melody scattering in the air.

Paul coughs to draw his attention. “I wrote it for you. Your voice, I mean. It would sound great with your voice.”

“And I think this song is a winner,” says Roy with a happy nod. He closes his eyes and moves his whole body slowly to the melody.

Art looks at Paul, surprised. “What? Me? No, I can’t do that. I think this is lovely, Paul. You should sing it. Your falsetto is amazing.”

Paul frowns and somehow steps back, as if Art’s shoved him. He shakes his head with annoyed look on his face. “No, Artie. You sing it. I wrote this for your voice, okay? I’ll have it transposed and all that. We’ll do the work, right, Roy? Don’t worry about any of that.”

“I’m not _worried,_ ” Art rebuts. “I just think you would do well. This is a nice song.”

“I _know._ And your voice will make it nicer.”

Art shakes his head. “You don’t need my voice to make your songs _nicer._ ”

Paul’s frowns get more irritated now. The wells on his forehead gets deeper and he looks like he’s about to punch Roy on the throat, because he wants to punch someone and he doesn’t wanna punch Artie. “No, Artie, I want you, okay? This song is meant to be some sort of a small hymn, alright? I want your voice to make it sound so. Just… try it first, okay? Please?”

Please. Art sighs and nods. “Okay, I’ll try it. But if it’s better with _your_ voice, _you_ sing it, okay? Roy, be fair?”

Roy raises his hands. “Cross my heart. So are we doing this record or what?”

“What,” Art mutters, then walks off to find a seat to listen to the demo all over again. Paul watches him from where he’s standing, arms folded and biting his nail. Art’s the one who usually does that. It’s oddly normal to see Paul do that. He’s like a baby.

“I’ll give you the other songs later,” Paul says, his eyes still watching. “I’ve finished some of them.”

“Sure.”

“The song you wanted me to do is there, too.”

Art looks at Paul and nods. Paul rubs his knuckle over his lips, confused. Art is disinterested in this whole thing. What is it? Is the song not good enough? No, that can’t be it. If that’s the problem, Art would’ve told him point-blank. Well, as straightforward as Art can be, at least. Is he exhausted? No, doesn’t seem so. Paul clears his throat to break the silence. “Roy will get us someone to transpose it, I want this on the piano. Then, get the strings.” Roy nods, patting on his note, already filled with scribbles. Paul searches for reaction from Art, who simply nods. He frowns again. “Artie, do you want to take a break or something?”

“What? No, no, I’m fine. I’m just… not really _in_ yet, you know? Hey, I just flew back. I’m pulling jetlag card.”

Paul tilts his head, watching carefully. “You freak me out a little bit.”

Art raises his eyebrow. “You freak me out a lot.”

“Ooh, balance. Fantastic. What’s next, you finally supplying songs for our records?”

“Boys.” Roy interrupted at the right time. Art’s eyes are glinting dangerously and Paul’s visibly angry, too. Roy looks at them each a couple of times, growing more concerned with each turning of the head. See, this is what he's talking about. When their expressions are not contradictory, it's way too similar and it's usually when they're both mad at each other. Roy prefers only one mad person than two. “You know what? You’ve heard the song, you’re writing a couple more… Why don’t you two just go home for now and I’ll make some calls to get someone good to work on this song? Okay? Clear your head and regroup in a couple of days, okay? Go. Go. Paul, your lighter. Artie, good to have you back.”

And that’s it. Their first studio session following Art’s return ended in several minutes. Paul is shocked to find himself on the curb, having prepared for a long night of recording and fighting over words and melodies. What just happened?

“Artie.” Paul quickly strides up to the taller man, in his black sweaters looking like an afternoon shadow, and catches his arm. Paul feels scared, for some reason. He gulps before he speaks. “What was that?” Then, as soon as it’s said, he changes the manoeuvre and shamelessly says, “Can I come with you?”

Art’s face is blank, as if he’s made of porcelain. He looks at Paul flatly, then lets his gaze drifts towards the fingers gripping him on the arm. Is it just an illusion, or did his lips quiver just now?

“Paul, I’ll be doing another movie after this.”

Paul blinks. That doesn’t sound like an answer to the question he just posed. “You—what?”

Art sighs and drops his shoulders heavily. He leans his back on the dirty alley wall, suddenly looking more tired than he’d ever been. “I knew you’d make a big deal out of this. It’s just some more months, okay? You’ll be writing here, and I’ll come back when it’s time to record.”

Paul feels nausea building up on his stomach, although it feels more like a punch or a bull’s headbutt than sickness. For a brief moment, he can’t feel his legs and he, too, has to lean on the alley wall, side by side with a row of rubbish bins. On the next second, he feels different feeling stewing in him. More like anger, and he wants to unleash it.

So, Paul shakes his head and rudely points at Art. “No, fuck you. I’m not doing that.”

Art lifts his eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

“That means, it’s over.” Paul gives out a sarcastic smile and stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets, shaking his head angrily. “Well, look at that, Artie. I _finally_ said I’m leaving and will actually leave.”

Art scoffs. “You’re not leaving.”

Paul narrows his eyes. “And just because you said that, Iactually _am_ leaving.”

He turns his heels and makes his way towards the crowd, heading nowhere but definitely away. Art doesn’t call for him. No, that boy’s head’s too big for that, with the hair and all. Screw Art. Screw this whole thing. He can do it just as well on his own, and probably better. Definitely better. So much better.

***

Peggy takes all the stomping and rambling at home. Paul doesn’t scream or go all cursing, but he glares at everything and eats with more force. Kindly, Peggy invites him to infiltrate her private spa session, cleverly coaxing him with, “But didn’t you like the vanilla and spices that we mixed together?” Which is true, and Paul doesn’t like the idea that his efforts go in vain.

While Peggy runs to prepare the bathroom, Paul sets up the tray with food and drink. He’s not convinced that it’s completely okay to eat in the bathroom, but between leaving Artie and really building a family with Peggy, it feels like the right time to do things he doesn’t feel like doing. Paul lifts the surprisingly heavy silver tray and carefully takes it to the bathroom, where Peggy is sitting by the side of a bubbly tub, swirling the foam with her slim hand, dressed in baby blue robe. _You know who looks good in blue? Artie. It matches his eyes._ Paul stabs Artie in his head.

“You know,” he says, as Peggy helps him out of his clothes and into the tub, “I would hate to see my songs go unused. I mean, this one I’m working on _should_ have Artie’s voice in it. It can’t be done any other way.”

“No?” Paul shakes his head stubbornly. He has clear vision of how this song’s supposed to be. The genesis of this song is near miracle, it _has_ to be sung by another miracle. Peggy sighs contently at the warmth that’s crawling her body, leans her head on Paul’s shoulder, and resumes the conversation. “So what are you gonna do?”

“I’m gonna finish the album,” Paul decides, surprised at how easy the conclusion comes out. He repeats it once to make sure, then goes on. “Then I’ll stop singing with Artie.”

***

A couple of days later, answering Roy’s call, Paul takes his car to the studio. His heart is heavy but he owes it to Roy, at least. It feels ridiculous. He had never wanted to avoid Art this much before, not since they first kissed and he’s too stupid to know what he wanted. He does now. He does, and it doesn’t feel fair that he wants this. How could he want to be apart? It’s Art. He _can’t_ not want Art.

A knock on his window startles him and Paul jumps and shrieks on his seat. He glares at the hunching figure with his knuckle still pressed on the side of the car. Paul grumbles quietly and rolls the window down.

“I thought you’re not gonna come.”

Paul winces at the sentiment. “Is that preferred?”

Art, for a moment, has a guilt haunting his face, but he withdraws and stands up straighter, his face cold and he clears his throat to steel himself. “Not preferred, but it’s amusing to see that you fail your attempts to leave me over and over again.”

Paul places his hand on the window pane, mulling. Then he rolls the window back up, turns off his engines and opens the door with guitar in his hand. He stops to face Art, his face equally cold and he somehow doesn’t feel bad about it. “I’m just here to have my songs recorded, Artie.”

Paul has begun to walk away from Art, but he hesitates and stops. He looks back at the man still standing idly at the side of his car, smoking, then clears his throat. “I don’t think you get what I was saying yesterday. It’s not you and I sort of ‘over’. It’s… us. It’s this. I’m leaving this.”

“What?”

“Us,” he repeats. Paul clenches the handle of his guitar bag, stifling his racing heart. “We’ll record this album… and that’s it. That’s the end of it. I’m not gonna do this anymore. I can’t do this with you anymore.”

“Wait, what?” Art drops his cigarette and stomps on it before running after Paul. He snatches the boy’s hand and drags him through the studio hall. He races past their door, keeps on half-running to the end of the building with grunting Paul in his hand. Art’s gone nuts, that’s for sure. He’s always been at least a quarter way there, and it seems like he’d leapt through the three quarters.

Art paws open a door leading to a renovated room, shoving Paul ahead before closing the door behind him and kicking a block of concrete towards it to hold it in place. The smell of paint and dust pervades the air. Paul holds his guitar bag in front of his chest for both comfort and protection. Art’s face is tense, maniacal. His eyes are bulging like ping-pong balls and he walks in stomps towards Paul. “What’s that supposed to mean? You can’t do this anymore?”

Paul tightens his grip on the guitar, shrinking. “Like I said. I don’t want to go on with the duo.”

Art scoffs and shakes his head. “That can’t be it,” he says. “You _can’t_ do that. You said you want me.”

“I know, Artie. I did. I do.” Paul looks down to his shoes, his left foot moves to make small circles on the dusty floor. “It’s just that, I can’t stand it anymore.”

“What _can’t_ you stand?” Art attacks accusingly. “Me?”

Paul raises his head and encourages himself to nod. At the gesture, Art’s face turns white, as if something had sucked out all life out of him. Paul fights the urge to look away and faces the ghost with every ounce of courage he has stored. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while, Artie. This is not a snap decision. This doesn’t work anymore.”

“What doesn’t?” Art’s voice is loud. It comes out of him like a bullet leaving a gun. Paul has to squeeze his eyes shut and moves his face away at the impact, but he recovers soon. He steadies himself, loosening his grips to help him relax and takes a deep breath.

“I’m not happy, Artie.” Paul’s eyes are fixed at Art now, trying to drill a hole to get through to him. This has to be the most difficult thing he ever had to do. But once the truth is spilled, it becomes more solid, more real. Paul is not happy. He hasn’t been happy for a long time. Whenever he’s with Art, he’s always reminded that he soon has to be without him. That’s enough to taint every single moment they spend together. And if it prolongs… Paul sure can’t take it.

This is it, then. Is being with Art more important than being happy? There are times that it seems so. But it never really is, isn't it? Paul knows that, and he has to always remember that. He can love Art enough to fill up the whole galaxy and beyond, but he has to be happy. He has to be able to be happy on his own. And Art... He's miserable, too. He can't keep on loving Art if that means Art's going to be this miserable forever. Paul takes a tentative step forward. Noticing how Art’s frozen where he stands, Paul takes another until he can reach for Art’s fingers and wrap it in his. “Tell me, Artie, have _you_ been happy?”

“Paul, I love you.”

It's heart-breaking how weak Art's answer was. Paul shakes a tear away and nods. When he speaks, his voice comes out coarse. “I don’t question that, Artie. I love you. But I’m not happy. I want to. More than anything, I want to. But if I’m not happy, and _you’re_ not happy, then…” His grip on Art’s fingers tightens and his breath shakes. Paul sniffles. “Then maybe we should let go.

“The thing is, Artie, I don’t know how to be without you,” Paul continues, steadier now. He looks up and waits until Art returns the contact before letting it slip away again. “When you left me, I didn’t know how to do that. You’ve never left me before, Artie. I was always the one to leave. I… I didn’t know how to process that. I still don't.”

Art’s face scrunched in anger now. “Are you just saying all this to get me to pull out of the movie project? See, this is why I didn’t tell you earlier.”

“No, no, Artie, no.” Paul shakes his head quickly and moves to squeeze Art’s arm, calming him down. “That’s not what I’m trying to do. I just want to say that… Oh, Artie, I’m sorry. This is my fault. This is on me and I’m very, very sorry.”

Art frowns, taken aback by the apology but is still not settled. “What do you mean?”

Paul sighs. He puts down the guitar on the least dusty surface and returns to Art, pressing his palms on either side of Art, almost like trying to make him smaller. “Artie, I thought you’d always be there for me,” he begins. “I thought you’d always be waiting for me whenever I decided to leave. I thought I could always take time away from you to sort myself, and I will always be able to come home to you when I’m ready with answers. That’s what I thought of you, Artie, you’re like a home to me. I can run away from it, I can move away, but you’ll always be there when I want to come back. And that’s my fault. I shouldn’t have thought of you that way. You are your own person. You have your own life. I shouldn’t treat you like a safety net.”

Art stiffens. “You can treat me however you like. You’ve been doing that for years. I’m used to it.”

Paul shakes his head. “That’s not fair.”

“Don’t act like you care now. That doesn’t work.”

Paul raises his eyebrow. “Okay, let’s do it _my_ way, then. It’s not fair for _me._ I can’t stand being the one who wound you. I don’t care being a jerk to everyone, but it pains _me_ when I do that to you. This is still about me, really. Is that selfish enough?” He sighs, his shoulders fall, exhausted. “I love you, Artie. I want to change the world to be with you, but I can only do so much. I can only stand so much. And when you left…”

“I _didn’t_ leave you, for God’s sake! I was just _trying something new!_ ”

“I know, I know. But you’re doing it again. And it’s fair. I did that, too. Solo recording, England, college... I know. And because I did that, Artie, I know what that means. You’re giving yourself a break. I’m… I’m glad you did. You deserve that. You deserve to know a life without me. It’s less intense, isn’t it? Ha.” Paul exhales slowly. He puts his head on Art’s chest, listening to the slow beat. Somehow, it slows his heart, too. “But that means you’re no longer my home. You asked why I'd been crying, didn't you? I cried because I'd lost my home. I love you so much, Artie, I want to always come back to you. But I can’t come home to nowhere. If you’re gone, I have to build another home somewhere else.”

Art looks down. His gaze is like laser beam, making two holes on Paul’s head. “You’re leaving me for Peggy?”

Paul returns the gaze, locking their eyes and firmly nods. “Yes.”

“But I said I will always sing with you.”

Paul smiles gently, his eyes soften so much it almost fades. “And I’m glad you did. And haven’t I already given you what I said I would? The stages, the audience, the lights… weren’t they there for you? They’re waiting for you still. I’ve made my promises, so you can go on without me. I will go on without you.”

“I don’t want to go on without you.” Art knits his brows. “And what about _my_ promise?”

Paul shakes his head. “You’ll never break that promise, Artie. You can't ever. You’re in all of my songs and you will always be there.” He brushes his thumb on Art’s cheek and finally, Art resumes the softness in his eyes. “Even when your voice is not around, you will always sing with me.”

“Paul, I love you.”

Paul opens his mouth to answer with the old familiar, but a loud knock and an attempt to shove the door behind them breaks them apart. Roy’s voice rings from behind the door, grunting and concerned. “Artie, Paul, you in there? What’s going on?” Noisy rumbling and pushing. Roy's head comes first when he finally manages himself into the room, coughing and stumbling on the concrete block Art had placed before. He looks at them with wide eyes filled with worry. “People said they saw you. Thought you’re fighting in this room! You aren’t, are you?”

The two of them look at each other, eyebrows raised, then they shrug harmoniously. “Kinda. But we’re fine.” Art pats Paul on the back and the latter bends over to take his guitar, then nods. “Yeah. We’re fine.” He briefly throws a glance at Art, then rushes over towards Roy at the end of the room. “Come on, then. I have a couple of materials we can work on.”

They follow Paul to the studio and find their places to sit while Paul sets up his guitar and his stool. Art sits at the edge of the room, sulking in the half darkness. He wishes Paul wouldn’t tell Roy that he has something to play so the two of them can go home and cry over what stupid decision Paul’s just made, but no, Paul has to come up with something brilliant and Art has to sit all day working on it with the guy who just broke his heart.

Paul places the guitar on his thigh and he looks down at the strings. If Art can play as good as he, and can come up with the best songs, what would he be writing for Paul? Angry songs, maybe, but also sappy at the same time. How would that go? Paul plucks the first string. The note bounces and echoes and fills the silent room with dreamy air. The second one follows like a stream of reverie. Art closes his eyes just before Paul begins to sing.

> “ _This is my song for the asking. Ask me and I will play so sweetly, I’ll make you smile. This is my tune for the taking. Take it, don’t turn away. I’ve been waiting all my life..._ ”

How did it come to this? They’d gone far from two young boys throwing balls in green field, far from a pair of tweens trying to sound like Don and Phil, far from Art following Paul traipsing from one foreign schoolyard to another to fool people into betting their lunch money over friendly ball games, from matches they saw with their fathers and brothers, from following their mothers to synagogue and listening to their complaints about the husbands, from building tents and drinking soda, trading notes in classrooms and deciding which song they ought to practice with, from arguing over the tolerable frequency of Paul making fun of Artie and vice versa. It’s even far from that first kiss in the bathroom and the second kiss in Paul’s squeaking chair, or from their sneaky pecks in studio or the whispered love songs over the telephone. England—that was only a few years ago and it’s already like a fogged scenery in their memory. The letters they sent to each other, so full of cryptic longing they hid under icy tones—what if the other didn’t get the _real_ message behind those short sentences? How much they’d yearned for each other, how painful it was to be apart? How far they’ve come.

> “ _Thinking it over, I’d been sad. Thinking it over, I’d be more than glad to change my way for the asking... Ask me, and I will play all the love that I hold inside._ ”

Paul hums through the end of the song, and while his eyes are closed, Art can feel that gaze falling on him, sizzling like sunburn. He buries his head on the fold of his arms, suppressing a sob. _I made a song for you._ Paul was telling the truth. This had been with him for a while: the decision for them to part. How could this be? How could anyone write a love song so raw, so sincere, for someone he's about to leave?

He heard a thump of Paul’s guitar as it’s dropped to the side, bumping softly on the microphone, then a loud clapping of Roy. Art removes his face from his arms and looks up to find Paul looking at him, waiting for his response, as usual. Art stands up, clears his throat and nods. “I’ll do it.”

Paul frowns. “Do what?”

“That song. The one you wanted me to sing. I’ll sing it.” He stares coldly at Paul. “Then that’s it, right?”

Paul’s face hardens, then he nods. “Then that’s it.”

Roy looks between them, but they’d broken their gaze. Art turns his heels and walks towards the door to light a cigarette, and Paul had moved towards the other end of the room with guitar on his hands, already trying to figure out how to neaten their next song. That’s it for the ice-cold exchange. That’s it for the harmony.

That’s it for the last kiss they share in the bathroom on their way out of the studio that late in the evening. That’s it for the hands they hold over the toilet bowl. That’s it for the teary eyes and painful silences. That’s it for the unspoken I-love-you’s and the lingering embrace, the scent of Paul’s hair and the warmth of Art’s chest.

That’s it for all. That's it for them. That’s it for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, this section's over! I hope you've enjoyed it so far! I'll return with new section in a couple of weeks <3 (Maybe)


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